


Checkmate

by Naadi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate 7th Year, Chess, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 245,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naadi/pseuds/Naadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has the perfect plan to get Harry Potter and challenges him to a game of Dare Chess. But is it love, or betrayal, he has in mind? A real chess game is played throughout the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I — The Setup — Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this fic here 11 years after it was written, it seems to me, requires some kind of a (probably long) note. :) Checkmate was written between 2002 and 2006, and therefore is based on events from only the first four HP books. Now that the HP series is complete, Checkmate is best categorized as an AU 7th year story set at Hogwarts. Harry’s 5th and 6th years in Checkmate are not described, but are _not_ the same as in The Goblet of Fire and The Half-Blood Prince.
> 
> Also a bit of forewarning: Checkmate was intended to be a very different exploration of Harry/Draco than what was standard at the time it was written. When I started reading Harry/Draco fics in the fall of 2001, the relationship between Harry and Draco was almost universally characterized by rough fights turned to rough sex, with lots of snark, constant bickering and misunderstandings, and with their mutual attraction so obvious and yet denied for so long you wondered how their brains hadn’t liquefied and dribbled out their ears. Then right when they finally acknowledge their attraction/love for each other – that’s THE END. Please don’t misunderstand - I loved those stories, I LOVED Harry/Draco, and I would never argue that that’s not a proper canon interpretation of what they would be like.
> 
> But I also wanted to read a story where, since they were supposed to be falling in love, they actually acted loving to each other; a story that explored their similarities rather than compounding their differences, that portrayed sex that was not just hormones and ogling each other and lust. I wanted to read a story that didn’t stop, like the well-worn Cinderella story plot, just when the characters realized they wanted to be together. I wanted them to get together at the beginning, and see what happened next. But I couldn’t quite find this other kind of Harry/Draco story that I wanted to read. So an experiment named Checkmate was born. 
> 
> And given that Checkmate was intentionally different in focus, I do want to assure new readers that although he might appear somewhat ooc in the first chapter or so, since you only see him interact with Harry, I did give a great deal of thought to Draco’s characterization and the psychology behind his behavior. Could he be in love, and act loving, and still be in character? Probably only with a great deal of growing up and changing having happened. So that’s what I did – Checkmate Draco has done a lot of rethinking about his life and beliefs before the story starts, during those 5th and 6th years that are different than the HP books. But then again, if you think that it’s not possible for a Slytherin to be nice, or to court someone with loving care, when that’s what it takes to get what they desire or further their ambitions, I think maybe you don’t know Slytherin. ;-) 
> 
> And one last word of warning: there is a good bit of silliness in this fic, especially at the beginning, but as it goes on, it becomes increasingly intense and suspenseful, and possibly in parts, maybe even a bit scary before the end. I don’t think anyone should be afraid to read it on that account, just be advised – what may seem at first to be a light fluffy story, will not continue to be so throughout. But I will not say anything more about the ending, so as not to ruin all the fun of the suspense. :D

  


_Knowing I want you,_  
_Knowing I love you,_  
_I can’t explain,_  
_Why I remain_  
_Careless about you._

_How can I love you so much,_  
_Yet make no move?_

_I pray the days and nights,_  
_In their endless, weary procession,_  
_Soon overwhelm_  
_My sad obsession._

Lyrics from “You and I” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Draco walked slowly down the shadowed Hogwarts castle corridor. It was sometime after midnight. He hadn’t really paid attention to where he was going; he was just walking, letting his mind lose itself in his private obsession, following the halls, avoiding the intermittent red-gold pools of lamplight, his bare feet completely noiseless on the stone floor. Dressed in black trousers and turtleneck, his face and hair, hands and feet seemed disembodied, graceful, pale as moonlight, floating ghostlike in the dark sections of the hallway. He walked like this when he couldn’t sleep, and that was often these days. As a seventh year student and a prefect, he had some excuse to be out of his room at night, but he still slipped as quietly as possible along the long corridors; from strict habit, he tried to avoid running into Filch, or Mrs. Norris, Filch’s cat.

Long swaths of winter moonlight fell across the floor from the high windows on his right and he paused for a moment, then walked around the pale rectangles of light, hugging the shadows of the far left wall. His fingers trailed along the cool stone, and as he walked on, he was reminding himself yet again how utterly hopeless it was to wish that he might run into another certain person out here in the middle of the night. And how hopeless it would be even if he did, because he couldn’t, no, _must_ not, let himself act on his desire.

Then he turned a corner and froze. He held very still, his mastery of the art of stillness exquisite. Twin lamps cast a confusing pattern of light and shadow from two suits of armor, but surely there was no mistaking what he saw. Was that really a pair of achingly familiar trainers and knees sticking out from between the two suits of armor?

_Get a grip, Draco_ , he told himself. _You’re starting to hallucinate._

But then the hallucination sniffled and sighed, and Draco’s heart did a slow melt. Suddenly he wasn’t very clear about what it was he shouldn’t do. Surely it couldn’t hurt just to talk. If he dared. He stood for a long time completely motionless, debating, his heart pounding.

Draco knew without a doubt that he would be totally unwelcome, and that hurt so much that he almost turned around and walked away. _He’ll be very angry. I know that, so I can’t let myself react to it. If I don’t get angry back, maybe he’ll listen to me. But, oh God, what if he doesn’t?_ He might have stood there immobile, indecisive, all night, but the sound of another sniffle sparked his curiosity and concern, and before he knew it, he had stepped forward, unable to resist the longing that drew him on.

He walked down the corridor until he stood in front of the slight, dark haired figure that was slumped down between the two suits of armor. He looked down on Harry, and felt a moment of elation, for it really _was_ Harry, who was sitting there with his elbows braced on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Then he felt a moment of shock – this was Harry, and he looked like he was – crying!?

“Potter?” said Draco, as gently as he could.

Harry’s head jerked back, and he looked up and up until he saw Draco’s face, then he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, and let his head fall back down into his hands. “Go the hell away, Malfoy,” he muttered through his hands.

Draco crossed his ankles and dropped with fluid grace to sit cross-legged in front of Harry. “Hey,” he said softly. “Is something wrong?”

Harry raised his head and stared at Draco in disbelief. Did _Draco Malfoy_ just ask him what was wrong? And if there was _anyone_ Harry hadn’t wanted to see him like this – 

“Do you have some kind of seventh sense, Malfoy,” he retorted angrily, “that tells you when you are the _last_ person in the world that someone wants to see, just so you can show up?” Harry ran one hand through his unruly hair, which only made it stick up worse. He leaned back against the wall and glared at Draco. “Just go away,” he said flatly. He crossed his arms over his chest and continued to glare.

Draco felt the old hurt rising up inside him, turning to anger as it always did, but he fought it, willed himself to not react this time. He let his head fall forward and looked down, breaking eye contact with Harry. Fair blond hair tumbled down over his forehead.

He heard Harry let out a martyred sigh. “Are you too dense to understand the meaning of ‘go away’?”

A small bit of Draco’s will power snapped. He looked up and flipped the hair out of his eyes with one small refined toss of his head. “No, Potter, I’m not,” he said, much more calmly than he felt. “I _am_ having trouble understanding why you feel it’s necessary to be so relentlessly rude to me.”

Harry’s jaw dropped slightly. “You have got to be kidding. After all the rotten things you’ve said and done to me and my friends?”

Draco looked back down. “You started it,” he said quietly.

“WHAT!”

Draco started worrying at the cuff of his trouser leg. “First year . . . that first day . . . on the train to school. You snubbed me and . . . that really hurt.”

Harry made a sort of strangled noise. “You were acting like a stuck-up, arrogant, insufferable git! And you had insulted the first two people in the world who ever offered to be my friends. First Hagrid in Diagon Alley, and then Ron on the train.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder slightly. “I was only eleven.”

“So!”

“So, that was seven years ago.”

“You _still_ act like that!”

Draco looked up and met Harry’s eyes with a steady gaze. Very softly, he said, “Do I? Have I at all this year so far? Am I now?”

Harry said nothing, as he studied Draco’s light silver-gray eyes. He tried to remember something that Draco had done lately to torment him. They had been back at school for three months now – it was only a week and a-half until Christmas break, and Harry, to his increasing surprise, couldn’t think of anything. They had played against each other ruthlessly in Quidditch, had sat through almost an entire excruciating term of Advanced Potions class, but Harry could not recall even one insult thrown his way. In fact, Draco had barely exchanged a word with him the whole term. He had been his usual cold self, distant and aloof, arrogant – no, admitted Harry, the arrogance wasn’t there now. Instead, it was more like – almost like – Draco had been deliberately avoiding him.

Draco held himself very still. He felt Harry’s stare to the marrow of his bones, and though it was hard, he didn’t try to hide his new feelings for Harry, instead he let all his real, honest emotions show in his own eyes for Harry to see. “You’re right,” he said in a low voice. “I did act like an insufferable git. But a lot of things happened to me over the past summer, and I . . . I’m sorry for it now.” He looked away, then down at his hands. “Would you believe me if I said that most of what you think you know about me was just an act I put on, to hide what I really felt?”

“I don’t know, Malfoy. If it was acting, you were very good at it – it seemed quite real.”

Draco glanced back up at Harry. “I _am_ good at it. It’s something you learn very young, when your father is Lucius Malfoy. But that doesn’t make it real.”

“Oh,” said Harry, very softly. “I always thought that you idolized him, that you . . . well, wanted to be just like him. All that pure-blood-wizarding-family-Slytherin-Death-Eater-Malfoy stuff, you know.”

Draco shivered. “Not anymore, I don’t,” he said, and his eyes glazed over, cold with bitterness. “He’s been controlling my life since the day I was born. When you and I met, I just didn’t know it yet. But I do now. My father is power-mad and cruel, and I don’t trust him now at all.”

Harry looked very sober and studied Draco as if he’d never really looked at him before. “You must have had a really rotten childhood,” he said slowly. “Like I did.”

Draco’s icy glare thawed at Harry’s words. He studied Harry back, as warmth, and then a spark of amusement crept into his light eyes. “Potter,” he said, raising one elegant eyebrow, “my childhood was never as bad as yours. I, at least, had clothes. That fit.”

Harry groaned. “Oh, very funny, Malfoy,” he said with a sarcastic tone. He looked at Draco with narrowed eyes, a little startled by the warmth in the other boy’s gaze. “Did I really hurt your feelings?” he asked, finally. “On the train?”

Draco nodded. “Terribly, horribly, and down to the bone.”

Harry was silent for a long moment. “Then, I’m sorry,” he said at last. “If it’s not too late to say so.”

A soft expression appeared in Draco’s eyes that Harry found almost mesmerizing. “No, it’s not too late,” he said. “Thank you.”

This last was said with such quiet sincerity that Harry just sat and stared at Draco, stricken speechless as all his previous conceptions about Draco Malfoy tried to mesh with this new person who sat facing him.

Finally, Draco broke the silence. “Potter, why are you sitting up here?”

“I, er . . .” Harry sighed, propped his elbows on his knees again and put his head in his hands, his fingers laced into his already disarranged hair. “It’s nothing really. I was just being stupid and I knew it, so I came up here where I _thought_ no one would see me.” He glanced pointedly over at Draco. “So much for that idea.”

Draco dismissed Harry’s comment with a shrug. “Well, now you have someone to talk to. So, what were you were being so stupid about?”

Harry moved his hands from the sides of his head around to cover his face. “Oh no, Malfoy. I’m not talking to _you_.”

“Why not?”

Harry moaned. “It’s too . . . embarrassing. And it really _isn’t_ important. I just needed to . . . think . . . and . . .”

Gentle hands closed around Harry’s wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. Harry opened his eyes, surprised, and met Draco’s steady silvered gaze.

“I just spilled my guts all over in front of _you_ , Potter,” said Draco softly. “Be fair.”

They stared at each other for a long moment and then Harry sat back against the wall, drawing his hands out of Draco’s light grasp. He crossed his arms over his chest and was silent for a long time, looking down, chewing on his bottom lip. “It’s about Hermione and Ron,” he said at last. He looked up suddenly, his eyes spitting green fire. “Malfoy, I swear, if you _ever_ tell anyone this, I’ll . . . I’ll scoop out your heart with a rusty Muggle spoon and feed it to Hagrid’s skrewts!”

For a second, Draco’s eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t have to threaten me,” he said. “I have no intention of talking about this . . . little encounter we’re having, to anyone.” Then he laughed. “I mean, look at us. Who’d believe it?”

“Well,” said Harry, “even so . . . I’m not sure I want to tell _anyone_ this. . . ”

Draco just sat looking at him, one eyebrow arched up, the beginnings of a grin lurking around the corners of his mouth. “Ron and Hermione?” he prompted.

Harry glared at him. “This is just some new way for you to torment me, isn’t it?”

Draco laughed. “Evidently so. But only because you’re being so stubborn. Look, I swear, on the threat of excruciatingly painful death by rusty Muggle spoon, I will not tell a soul, living or dead, what you are about to tell me. Now, c’mon, Potter, spill.”

Harry let out a long exasperated sigh. “You’re not going to go away, are you?” It was not really a question.

“No.”

Harry closed his eyes. Maybe if he didn’t _see_ who he was talking to, he wouldn’t feel quite so mortified. But he doubted it. He took a deep breath. “Tonight, right after dinner,” he said, “Ron and Hermione told me that they’re getting engaged. They wanted me to know – but they haven’t told their parents, so they’re not going to announce it yet. But then they were standing there, holding hands, looking at each other like . . . well, so in love . . . and then he kissed her, and it was so . . . sweet . . . and oh God, Malfoy, I can’t believe you’re making me tell you this.” Harry leaned forward and laid his forehead on his knees and covered his head with his arms. “This is mortifying,” he mumbled into his knees.

“Is this about Granger?” asked Draco softly, and Harry didn’t see the sudden flicker of anguish in his eyes. “Are you in love with her? Is that why you’re upset?”

“No!” Harry jerked up and stared at Draco, his hair all awry, and his glasses crooked. “No, it’s not that at all . . . it’s just. . . ”

Draco’s heart did that funny little quiver it had been doing lately whenever he saw Harry being so unconsciously adorable. He reached out and straightened Harry’s glasses. “Well, what then?” he asked.

Harry didn’t seem to notice that Draco had set his glasses right. Instead, he slumped back against the wall in defeat. He closed his eyes again. “I always thought I’d have someone by now.” He paused. The words, _I thought I_ did _have someone_ , ran unbidden through his mind. He tried to ignore the thought, and went on. “My parents did. They met here and fell in love. And I’ve been in and out of a few relationships here . . . but nothing where I was really . . . in love . . . or anyone’s been in love with me.” _Oh god, it hurts to say that._ Harry took a deep breath and continued. “So, when I saw Ron and Hermione together, I guess I was feeling afraid that no one will ever look at me like that, or kiss me like that. Now that they’re together, I’m really very happy for them, but . . . I’m, well . . . going to feel so . . . alone.”

Harry took another deep breath, which mostly came out in an enormous sigh. He waited for the ridicule to start, but there was only silence. Cautiously, he opened his eyes.

Draco was sitting very still, his eyes downcast. As if sensing that Harry was looking at him, though, he looked up. The expression in those silvery gray eyes made Harry catch his breath.

“Harry,” said Draco, “that is _not_ stupid.”

Harry felt a flush of heat spread slowly across his face because of the way Draco was looking at him. And had Draco just called him by his _first name_!? “Well, it – it just seemed like I was feeling sorry for myself,” said Harry, “and – ”

“Shhh!” hissed Draco suddenly, jumping to his feet.

Harry scrambled up. “What?” he whispered. Then he heard the footsteps.

“Filch!”

“Quick!” said Harry. “Get under here!” He snatched up the Invisibility Cloak that had been lying next to him and threw it over his head, holding up the edge so Draco could duck under it.

Draco didn’t need to be asked twice. He threw himself under the cloak, knocking Harry back against the wall.

“Mmpf!” said Harry.

“Shhh!”

There wasn’t room for them to stand side by side between the two suits of armor, so they were pressed face to face. Harry was pinned, squashed between Draco and the wall, with Draco’s hands flat against the wall on both sides of him.

“You’re standing on my foot!” breathed Harry in Draco’s ear, which incidentally was right by his mouth.

“Sorry!” breathed Draco back.

Harry felt him move his foot and try to position it elsewhere.

The footsteps turned the corner and both boys froze. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” Filch called out in a sing-song falsetto voice. “Mrs. Nor – ris. Where’s my ickle Dumplin-Wumplin?”

Harry and Draco’s eyes met. Harry turned beet red and clamped his lips together. A small snort escaped anyway. Draco clapped his hand over Harry’s mouth, which made Harry almost lose his balance and fall sideways into the suit of armor on his left. He threw his arms around Draco to catch himself.

“Is that you, Poopsie-Kins?” called Filch.

Draco almost choked, and had to drop his face onto Harry’s shoulder to stifle the sound.

The clomping steps stopped right in front of the suits of armor. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” yelled Filch at the top of his lungs. He banged on the armor with his stick. _CRASH! CLANG!_

Both boys jumped and Harry grabbed Draco tighter to keep from falling over again.

“Damn, blasted, bloody cat! Where are ye?”

Silence.

“Hrumpf,” growled Filch. He turned away and scowled, searching the corridor with his murderous stare. “Could ‘a swore I heard something over here,” he muttered.

A small stifled whimper escaped from Harry.

Filch whirled to face the spot where Harry and Draco stood.

Silence.

“PEEVES!” he yelled, his furious eyes boring a hole directly into Harry and Draco. “You’d better not be messing with me tonight, Peeves!!”

Silence.

“Hrumpf.” He turned on his heel and clumped away.

The footsteps faded down to the end of the corridor. Harry and Draco heard one last “Here kitty, kitty, kitty?” and then a door slammed. Draco lifted his head from Harry’s shoulder and took his hand away from Harry’s mouth.

“Oh God!” said Harry, breathing hard. “I thought I would die when he said – ”

“Poopsie-Kins!” said Draco, gasping, grinning from ear to ear and wiping his damp eyes. “Oh, Lord, that was unbelievable!” He glanced at Harry, who was grinning back at him, then looked up at the Invisibility Cloak. He lifted his hand and ran his fingers down the inside of the fabric. “This is bloody brilliant. In fact, this may be the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” Then he laughed again. “So this is how you’ve managed to get away with murder around here all these years.”

“My dad left it to me,” said Harry proudly, smiling.

Draco dropped his gaze to meet Harry’s eyes and smiled back at him, their faces only inches apart.

Harry suddenly became very aware that they were standing pressed against each other, and that he had his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist. He quickly pulled his arms away and blushed.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m not,” said Draco softly, and made no attempt to move away. “And by the way, Harry – that little story you just told me? I think you have nothing to worry about. I’m actually quite sure there is someone here, maybe very close to you right now, in fact, that would love to kiss you like that.”

“Er, Malfoy – ”

“Do you play chess?”

“What?”

“Do you play chess? You know, Pawns, Queens, Kings?”

Harry felt his glasses sliding a little down his nose, but he couldn’t move to push them up. “I play some with Ron. I’m really not very good at it.”

Draco shrugged. “Have you ever played Dare Chess?”

“No. I . . . I’ve never heard of it.”

“Then I’m challenging you to a game, Harry. I’ll play white, so I go first.” Draco leaned in so that their heads were so close together that Harry could feel Draco’s words in warm breath on his face. “Pawn to D3,” whispered Draco. His eyes closed and his hands came up to grip Harry lightly by the shoulders. Then he kissed Harry on the mouth, an exquisitely gentle, achingly slow, but only for a moment, feather-soft kiss.

Harry thought his heart would stop from shock.

Draco pulled away and looked Harry in the eyes.

Harry’s heart almost did stop.

“Consider that my opening move,” said Draco, his voice still a whisper. “You can tell me tomorrow if you accept the challenge.” He reached up and trailed one finger down the side of Harry’s face. “Your move, Harry.” Then he ducked down and slipped out from under the Invisibility Cloak.

Harry’s knees gave out and he slid down the wall until he sat abruptly on the floor. “Arrrgh!” He struggled for a moment trying to get the tangled Invisibility Cloak off. “WAIT!” He pulled the cloak away. “Malfoy!” He pushed his glasses back up straight and looked around. “What the bloody hell was that!?”

But he was alone in the corridor. Draco had vanished.


	2. Part I — The Setup — Chapter 2

  


_The one I should not think of keeps rolling through my mind_  
 _And I don’t want to let that go._  
 _No lover’s ever faithful, no contract truly signed,_  
 _There’s nothing certain left to know,_  
 _And how the cracks begin to show!_

_Never make a promise or plan,_  
 _Take a little love where you can,_  
 _Nobody’s on nobody’s side._

_Never stay too long in your bed,_  
 _Never lose your heart, use your head,_  
 _Nobody’s on nobody’s side._

Lyrics from “Nobody’s Side” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Draco lay on top of his bed, still dressed, one arm draped over his eyes so that all that could be seen of his face was a smile. Oh God, he thought, that had been so perfect. Every single moment of it. No matter what else happened in his life, he would have this memory – of Harry confiding in him, of laughing at Filch together, of the way Harry’s arms felt around his waist, of that kiss.

That kiss, where for one very brief, yet very long incredible moment, time had seemed to stop, and Draco had lost himself in the taste of Harry’s warm, soft mouth. That kiss had been inspired. And Dare Chess, something he had made up right then on the spot, _that_ had been inspired, too.

It didn’t matter what Harry might do tomorrow. Draco fully expected to pay dearly for the delicious pleasure he’d had tonight, fully expected Harry to be furious, to still hate him, to reject, ridicule, and tear his heart to pieces. But it didn’t matter. That was tomorrow. Tonight he had experienced perfection, and he thought he could make the memory of that feeling last a very long time.

He sighed. It was, as he had said, Harry’s move. He would just have to wait and see what happened. He expected he would have to go back to avoiding Harry, pretending nothing happened, that he felt nothing. Would the memory of tonight make that easier, give him something real to hold on to for comfort when he felt that aching loneliness that kept him awake nights? Or, now that he had actually touched Harry, actually knew how perfect Harry’s body felt against his own, would it make it just that much harder to pretend. Either way, Draco knew he would have to walk away from it eventually, one way or another. He and Harry could never really have a relationship. There was no future for them together. His father. . . 

* * * * * 

Harry crept back to his dorm room under the Invisibility Cloak, got undressed and into bed, then pulled the covers up completely over his head. He lay rigid under the blankets, hands balled into fists, eyes squeezed shut, biting down on his lower lip. How could he have fallen for all that sincerity crap? The only explanation was a very simple one – Draco Malfoy was very good at playing him for an utter fool. Malfoy had tricked him _again_ ; had humiliated him, and had oh bloody hell _kissed_ him, making a complete mockery of what Harry had confided in him.

_Poor Harry Potter, crying in the hallway because he was afraid nobody loved him, wishing someone would kiss him._

Harry had no doubt that the story would be all over Slytherin House by morning, and by breakfast he would be the laughing stock of the school. It was simply too awful. He could just picture Malfoy telling the Slytherins how he had made Harry’s wish come true. And the most appalling part of it, the most horrible, terrible, hideous truth of it all was that no one had _ever_ kissed him quite like that before. _Not even . . ._

The lingering memories of the gentle touch of Draco’s hands, his body, his lips, were imprinted on Harry’s mind. Draco’s voice, his soft comments and smiles, that moment when he had said, “that is _not_ stupid,” as if he had actually understood, maybe even shared, Harry’s feelings, and oh God, the warm tone his voice had held when he had called him ‘Harry’ — all of those things were filling Harry with a deep sense of disappointment that they hadn’t been real, and a tremendous ache of loss that he really didn’t want to examine too closely. How could he have been so dumb as to trust that slimy git?

Tomorrow, Malfoy would have his sport, Harry would bear it bravely and as nonchalantly as possible, and then Harry would go out and feed himself to the giant squid in the lake. Hopefully it would all be over very, very quickly.

* * * * * 

His father. . . 

Draco sat straight up, rigid and horrified, his face suddenly drained of all color. His father! Oh God, how could he have let himself lose control like that? He had been avoiding Harry for a very, very good reason. Draco stared unseeing out into his dark room as Lucius Malfoy’s face swam up before his eyes, the horrible scene from this summer replaying itself once more in his mind.

His father’s cold sneering face loomed toward him as Lucius stood up and leaned menacingly forward, planting his fists in the center of the great mahogany desk in his study. His voice was a low icy hiss, vicious with suppressed anger. “You will do as I say, boy! It’s time you proved to me just where your loyalties lie. The heir of this house _will_ serve the Dark Lord.”

Draco stood on the other side of the desk, trying to remain outwardly calm, to appear cool and unruffled, while his guts were seizing up in knots. He had known this day was coming. Had looked forward to it once. _When had everything changed?_ How long had the knowledge that he loved Harry and despised his father been growing in him, so that it burst now with startling clarity on his mind in this moment? How long?

“No,” he said, firmly. “I won’t.” He met his father’s eyes, not with defiance, but with cold unshakable certainty. “Disown me.”

“I WILL NOT!” Lucius slammed his hand down on the desk with a thunderous crack.

It took all of Draco’s self-control not to flinch.

“This is your last year at that Hogwarts School. This is your last chance to get me Harry Potter. And you _will_ do it.” Lucius leaned further forward, malicious lights sparking fire in his steel-colored eyes. “I expect you to think of a plan to capture and deliver Harry Potter to me before the end of this school year. And if you fail . . .” Lucius smiled at Draco. It was an ugly, totally cold, smile. “I will get Harry Potter anyway, and I will give him and you _both_ to the Dark Lord.” He paused. “Do you understand what I’m saying, boy?”

“Yes,” said Draco, his voice shaking with loathing. “I understand perfectly.”

“Then get out of my sight until you have something to tell me that I want to hear.”

The vision faded, and Draco fell back limp on the bed. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself to stop the trembling that shook him. No, he and Harry had no future at all, unless you could count being served up as an entrée to the Dark Lord together as a future. And of course, it was very unlikely that Harry Potter would want to have any kind of future with him anyway. The rejection he had always felt from Harry threatened to resurface. He tried to remember what Harry had said tonight. _“Then, I’m sorry,”_ he had said. _“If it’s not too late to say so.”_ Maybe it _was_ too late, had always been too late for them.

Draco stared up at the ceiling of his room, his thoughts churning, his emotions, always so carefully controlled, turning him inside out. He felt he was standing, unbalanced and swaying, at the edge of a vast, limitless void, a bottomless pit of darkness. If he made the wrong choice, he would fall forever. Be lost, forever. And in that moment, he knew, for him there was only one choice. One choice, and from it, only one possible plan. Slowly and painstakingly, he formed this plan, turning it over and over in his mind, shaping it, examining its flaws, crafting every part with intricate care. He kept his mind far away from the part of him that was terrified by what he was about to do. There was no time for that.

Draco got up and went to his desk. He opened the top drawer and took out a piece of parchment. With an unsteady hand, he dipped his quill into the bottle of ink and started writing:

  


> _Father,_
> 
> _I have done as you asked. I have devised a plan to get Harry Potter that I  
>  believe is perfect. In fact, I think it may even surprise you. When I have things  
>  in progress, I will let you know._
> 
> _Your son, and heir,_
> 
> _Draco_

  


Draco waited for the ink to dry, then folded the parchment into a small packet. He went to his window, pushed the leaded glass panes open, and whistled softly into the frosty night sky. Within a few moments, a huge eagle owl, silent wings outstretched, was perched on his windowsill. Draco fastened his letter to the owl’s leg. “Take it to Lucius,” he commanded, and without a sound, the owl was gone. There was no turning back now. If he failed, he knew with certainty that Lucius Malfoy would kill him.

And Draco would want him to.


	3. Part I — The Setup — Chapter 3

  


_Through the elegant yelling_  
_Of this compelling_  
_dispute_  
_Comes the ghastly suspicion_  
_My opposition’s_  
_a fruit._  


_It’s very sad_  
_to see the ancient and_  
_distinguished game_  
_That used to be_  
_a model of decorum_  
_and tranquility_  
_Become like any other sport,_  
_A battleground_  
_for rival ideologies_  
_To slug it out with glee._

Lyrics from “Quartet” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

“GET UP, HARRY!” A very insistent voice kept repeating that same nonsense over and over.

Harry groaned. _Ron_.

“Hey, c’mon! It’s getting late.”

Harry moved slowly and managed to sit up. He felt like hell. “Shut up, Ron,” he murmured. “I’m coming.” He heard footsteps approach the side of his bed and stop. Then someone pulled back the bed hangings. Harry winced as the bright winter sunlight came pouring in on him from the window next to his bed. He squinted one eye open and looked up at his tall red-haired roommate with a scowl.

Ron whistled. “Geez, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “You look awful. Are you sick?”

Harry mutely shook his head. Not sick.

Ron sat down on the corner of Harry’s bed. “You didn’t have another one of those, er . . . You-Know-Who nightmares, did you?” he whispered.

Harry moaned silently. Oh, yes. That’s what it was – that’s what was wrong with his world this morning. A nightmare. The worst nightmare of his life was waiting for him at breakfast. He pulled back his blankets and dragged himself up. “No,” he sighed. “I’ll be all right, Ron. I just didn’t . . . sleep very well last night.” There was no point in warning Ron about what was about to happen. How could he? He himself could scarcely manage to _think_ the words _Draco Malfoy kissed me_ , much less say them out loud. And particularly not to Ron, who would probably die of heart failure on the spot. _Well_ , thought Harry, _then Ron may not live through breakfast either_.

He and Ron met Hermione in the Gryffindor common room, and the three went down to breakfast together. Ron and Hermione walked ahead of Harry, hand in hand, admiring the twinkling Christmas lights and decorations which were beginning to appear everywhere, but they had to repeatedly stop and wait, because Harry seemed unable to keep up, and would keep lagging behind. By the time they reached the Great Hall, both of Harry’s friends were casting worried looks at him. Harry kept his head down, eyes on the floor, and ignored them. He wondered if he would have to go around like that for the rest of the school year.

Harry stopped for a moment just outside the doors of the Great Hall, steeling himself before he went in. Then he followed Ron and Hermione as they slowly made their way through the packed room to their regular seats at the Gryffindor table. He could hear the usual loud hum and buzz of voices and laughter, mixed with the clink of silverware on dishes. And that was all. He glanced up a little and looked around. Nothing happened. Then, “Hey, Harry,” called out Seamus in greeting as he passed. “I think you might have to cancel Quidditch practice this afternoon. I heard Trelawney’s predicting snow mixed with danger and death!” The comment elicited a chorus of giggles from several younger girls who were no doubt taking Divination this term. But no one laughed at Harry. No one paid any attention to him.

He sat down, and absently took a piece of toast and laid it on his plate. This was too weird. His eyes slid across the room to the Slytherin table. Draco was there, sitting calmly, most of his face hidden behind his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , just as if nothing in the world extraordinary had happened. Without taking his eyes off Draco, Harry dished up some scrambled eggs and put them on top of his toast. Then he took a spoonful of peaches in heavy syrup and put them on top of the eggs.

“Harry, what is wrong with you!” whispered Ron, nudging him in the ribs. “Look what you’re doing!”

Harry pulled his gaze away from the Slytherin table and looked down at the runny mess on his plate. Grimly he picked up his fork and took a bite. “I happen to like this,” he muttered to Ron, who was shaking his head. When Ron turned away to listen to something Hermione was saying, Harry looked back over at Draco. He was still reading the paper. Belatedly he remembered that Malfoy had told him that he had no intention of talking to anyone about last night. Had he actually meant it? _Bloody hell_. Had he worried himself sick over nothing? 

Harry looked down, forced himself to eat a few more bites, then thoughtfully pushed the remnants of the syrupy eggs and soggy toast around with his fork. He’d been so sure that Malfoy had kissed him to make a fool of him, to ridicule his feelings, he hadn’t really taken seriously anything the other boy had said. If Malfoy hadn’t meant to humiliate him publicly, then just what the _double bloody hell_ had he meant by kissing him like that? Even now, he was much too upset by how that kiss had made him feel, to think clearly. Even now, he could still feel it. . .

Harry felt his face flush at the memory, and he glanced over at the Slytherin table again. Draco was looking at him over the top of his newspaper. For one second their eyes connected across the room. A shock like electricity surged through Harry. But Draco calmly looked away, folded his paper on the table, got up, and started making his way toward the doors. _Oh no, you don’t_ , thought Harry, as he grabbed his bookbag and jumped up from his seat.

“Harry!” called Hermione. “Wait! Ron and I aren’t finished eating yet.”

“Er, sorry guys,” said Harry, backing away toward the doors, “– don’t hurry – I just forgot something. I’ll meet you in the hall – on the way to class.” And Harry turned and took off after Draco, who had just disappeared into the main entrance hall.

“Forgot something?” snorted Ron. “I’ll say. His wits!”

* * * * * 

Draco had come down to breakfast early, in spite of having had very little sleep. He was quite anxious to be in the Great Hall before Harry. He wanted to watch Harry walk in, wanted to hide behind his paper and see how Harry was reacting, without allowing Harry to see _him_. He needed to talk to Harry, desperately needed Harry to get involved in the chess game he had invented – his whole plan centered around that one thing. And Draco surmised that the best way to get Harry angry enough, confused enough, and off-guard enough to agree to play with him, was to completely ignore him. Harry had a habit of forcefully confronting the things that bothered him, a habit Draco was counting on.

If Harry was at all unsettled by that kiss, or, _be-still-my-heart_ , had _liked_ it, Draco knew it would drive Harry crazy if he pretended it hadn’t happened. Of course, the most likely possibility, and Draco knew the odds would be heavily in favor of it, was that Harry would have been horrified and repulsed, and would simply march into the Great Hall and punch Draco in the face – in which case, Draco’s plan was so much flaming toast. 

Draco glanced over at the Gryffindor table and then looked down at his watch. Harry was running late. If he didn’t come in soon, Draco wouldn’t have time to talk to him before class. But, just then, he saw Weasley and Granger come in. They stopped just inside the doors and turned to look back out into the main hall. And Draco had to hold his paper up higher to hide the grin, and the heat flush that colored his face when, a few seconds later, Harry, obviously very reluctantly, walked in. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, and like he expected the ceiling of the Great Hall itself to drop on him. He was being adorable again, completely pathetic, but so adorable.

 _And_ , Draco thought with an inner thrill, _if he’s this upset, he must have liked that kiss_.

Draco invoked his characteristic outward calm, and pretended to read the Daily Prophet. His plan was most definitely underway. He watched Harry surreptitiously over the top of his paper, and even though his eyes were not visible from Harry’s point of view, Draco was able to see Harry quite well. He saw Harry look over at him twice. He watched Harry poke miserably at the food on his plate. _Now_ , said Draco to himself. _It’s game time_. He lowered the paper a bit and waited for Harry to look at him again. And then it happened. Harry looked up, and their eyes met, and lighting struck.

It was only years of habit that allowed Draco to keep up the pretense of composure, drop his eyes, fold his paper and walk calmly out of the room. But it worked. He saw Harry jump up, shake off Hermione, and come after him, a look of grim determination on his face that Draco was only too familiar with. It was the very same look Harry got when they played Quidditch, when Harry spotted the Snitch. _One big difference though_ , thought Draco. _Unlike that blasted Snitch, I happen to want to be caught – of course, I don’t want him to know that – or not just yet anyway_.

When Draco got out into the main hall, he set off walking fast past the main stairs toward the corridor that led down to the Slytherin dungeons. He had to time it just right. If Harry caught up to him too close to the main hall, they wouldn’t be able to talk privately, but on the other hand, he doubted if Harry would follow him too far into Slytherin territory. They also didn’t have much time before everyone else would be finished eating. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Harry burst out of the Great Hall and skid to a momentary stop in the entrance hall. He saw Harry spot him and launch himself in pursuit.

“Malfoy!”

Draco didn’t stop or turn to look back, but he grinned. If it was possible to strangle a word, Harry had just done it to his name. Draco kept on walking, ignoring Harry; he was almost where he wanted to be. It was like fencing, he thought, giving ground to draw your opponent out after you, make him reckless, maybe careless. He _wanted_ Harry to be angry and reckless, off-balance. He heard pounding footsteps behind him, heard, “Stop, dammit!” Draco stopped and turned so suddenly, that Harry plowed right into him. Just as Draco had intended.

Draco was anticipating the crash, so he was deftly able to catch Harry and keep them both from falling over. He calmly held on to Harry until he felt Harry get his balance, then took hold of his shoulders and shoved him back hard, so that Harry took a couple of steps backwards. Then he schooled his features to that expression of disdainful indifference that he did so well. “You should watch where you’re going, Potter,” he drawled. “If I’d been one of the first years, I’d be road kill right now.”

* * * * * 

Harry crashed into Draco and felt the other boy’s arms go around him, steady him, then slide up to his shoulders. _Like last night_. He was completely unprepared when Draco shoved him away. He stumbled back a couple of steps, then looked up at Draco in confusion, to see that oh-so-familiar-and-loathsome-expression-that-he-despised on Draco’s face.

“You should watch where you’re going, Potter,” Draco drawled. “If I’d been one of the first years, I’d be road kill right now.”

Harry was suddenly furious. Furious and . . . hurt. He took a step forward, back toward Draco, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. _“Stop that!”_ he raged, enunciating each word, but still keeping his voice down. “I’m not stupid. Everything you’ve done this morning was perfectly calculated to make me come running out here after you – so you can just cut that ‘not interested’ crap right now!”

And to Harry’s amazement, Draco did. Within the blink of an eye, the mask was gone. In its place were warm gray eyes and an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” said Draco.

Harry still frowned at him, though he was somewhat mollified by the change in expression and the apology. “You got me out here, Malfoy. Now you have some explaining to do, and I’m expecting honesty. You either be straight with me, or I walk away right now.”

Draco’s smile widened a bit. “Oh damn, Potter,” he said in a low, amused voice, “being straight with you isn’t what I had in mind at all. But,” he said, louder, “I do promise I’ll try to be honest with you.”

“Okay, then,” said Harry slowly, uncertainly. He had the unmistakable feeling that he had just missed something important, but his attention was much too intent on one other very important question for him to try to figure it out. “I just want to know one thing, Malfoy,” he said, looking Draco straight in the eyes. “What the _hell_ did you do last night?”

“Hmm,” said Draco, thoughtfully, returning the emerald gaze with perfect calm. “I seem to recall challenging you to a chess game, Harry. I even made the first move.” He arched one eyebrow up. “You haven’t told me if you’re going to accept that challenge.”

Harry felt his anger rising again. “That is not what we’re talking about, and you know it.”

Draco gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes it is. It’s _exactly_ what we’re talking about. Are you going to play, or not?”

“And why in the world would I want to play some weird ‘dare’ game with _you?_ ”

“Because I won’t answer any questions unless you do.”

God, he was maddening. Harry had a sudden urge to punch Draco in the nose.

“Don’t . . . do . . . it,” said Draco, quietly, as if he could read Harry’s mind.

Harry glared at Draco, and realized that his thoughts had probably been very clearly written on his face. _I should just walk away_ , he thought. _Walk away now, Harry_. But he couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let him let go – he wanted an answer from that infuriating blond git. “Then explain it, Malfoy,” he said in an icy voice. “I’m not playing unless I know exactly what I’m getting into here.” He paused and narrowed his eyes at Draco. “ _Are_ there any rules to this game of yours?”

“There are rules, Potter, but not many. Dare Chess is really very simple.” Draco glanced to the side over Harry’s shoulder. A few students were starting to filter out of the Great Hall. He took hold of Harry’s arm and pulled him over close to the wall where they would not be as visible. He continued in a lowered voice. “There are three main rules. The first rule is that for each move you make on the chessboard, you must also make a move on your opponent. The move can be physical or rhetorical, but it can’t be magical or material. In other words, you can’t cast spells or take personal possessions. You can do something to your opponent, which is what I did last night, or you can tell something, or ask a question. The only stipulation is that whatever you do, tell, or ask has to be personal, private, or intimate. Like a secret, or something. And –”

“Wait,” said Harry, interrupting. “Do you mean, if I play this game with you, I can ask you really private stuff?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“And do you have to answer?”

“I was just getting to that part, Potter. Second rule, you can’t reveal anything that is said during the game to anyone outside the game, and third, if you refuse your opponent’s move, then you forfeit the game.” 

“Then what happens?” asked Harry. “What happens when somebody wins?”

“Then it’s winner take all – or nothing. Winner’s choice.”

“All?” said Harry, eyeing Draco suspiciously. “What exactly are we talking about here? Ha! I’m not sleeping with you, Malfoy, if that’s what you mean.”

Draco shrugged. “Then maybe you should just stay out of the game, Potter. You know what they say – if you can’t stand the heat, don’t step in the fire. Maybe this is just ‘too hot’ for you.”

Harry snorted. “I have nothing to hide, Malfoy. I think I can handle anything you can dish out.” Harry stopped talking as a couple of Slytherin sixth year girls walked by. Both of them were eyeing Draco and giggling. _Lord_ , thought Harry, _he’s probably had girls all over this school_. Then Harry grinned, and looked back at Draco. “And I believe it’s my turn. . . Pawn to D5,” said Harry. “Now answer this: How many girls have you ever slept with?”

Draco made a slight choking sound, and raised both eyebrows. “Er, Harry – ”

“Just answer the question, Malfoy. Or is that too hot for _you_?”

Draco shook his head, and then grinned mischievously back at Harry. “Okay, give me a minute. It might take me a while to count them all.” He looked up in the air over Harry’s head. “Let’s see . . . there was . . . hmm, and . . . well . . . yes, and . . . and then there was . . . oh, and I can’t forget . . .” Draco dropped his eyes back to Harry’s. He seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Okay, Potter. I have your answer. It’s . . . _none!_ ”

It was Harry’s turn to make a strangled noise. “Come on, Malfoy. You can’t possibly expect me to believe you’re still a virgin.”

Draco colored slightly, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well,” he said. “So what if I am. I intend for that to change by the end of this game.”

“Oh, give me a break,” said Harry, exasperated, and not really registering Draco’s last comment. “I can’t believe you haven’t been slithering around in the Slytherin girl’s dorm all these years. It’s common knowledge they all want you.”

Draco laughed. “And I really can’t believe you are as dense as you are, Potter. In case you haven’t been paying attention, and you obviously haven’t been, I prefer to do my ‘slithering’ in the _boy’s_ dorm, thank you, and the pickings there have been . . . how shall I say it . . . rather gross, and er . . . distasteful?”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he stared at Draco for a long moment during which he slowly turned beet red. Several things he had ignored suddenly fell into place with alarming clarity. “Oh, shit, Malfoy,” he said at last. “I was joking when I made that crack about the ‘all’ meaning us sleeping together. But you’re not joking are you?”

“No.” Draco tilted his head, and looked at Harry with thoughtful amusement. “You really are an idiot, Potter,” he said softly. “Why on earth else would I have kissed you last night? And if you’re so straight, how come you liked it so much?”

“WHAT! Arrgh! I am _not_ going to sleep with you,” moaned Harry, “you . . .”

“Slimy git?” supplied Draco smoothly. “Now I think it’s _my_ turn.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “Bishop to F4,” he said, and then raised one eyebrow. “Are _you_ a virgin, Potter?”

Harry closed his eyes. He could still feel the blood pulsing in his face and ears. A second ago he had thought this situation could not possibly get any worse. But it just had. _Malfoy is right – I really am an idiot._ Harry had one secret, and this was it. Not even Ron knew this. And worst of all, Draco probably never would have asked him about it if Harry himself hadn’t started this line of questioning. It was just too horrible. His throat hurt, the heartache still able to seize him unexpectedly. Harry turned his body away from Draco and slumped back against the wall, his head down. “No,” he heard himself say, as if from a great distance. “No, I’m not.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence. “Who?” asked Draco finally, in an almost whisper, as if speech had failed him momentarily.

Harry pulled up off the wall and turned back to face Draco. His eyes met Draco’s for a split second, then he looked away. _I am not telling you that_ , he thought. _No way. That is just too personal. Think, Harry – think of something quick_. He took a deep breath. “That is really an ill-mannered question, Malfoy,” he said, stalling, thinking furiously. “It isn’t very honorable to sleep with a girl and then tell it around.” He sighed dramatically. “I really shouldn’t say . . . but if you must know . . . let’s see, the first was Fleur Delacour. That happened the summer after fourth year while I was home. She came to work in London for a bit to improve her English, and she looked me up. She was really grateful to me for saving her little sister, you know.”

“ _Fleur!?_ “ gasped Draco, aghast. “You slept with Fleur! You were only fourteen!”

“I was fifteen – it was right after my birthday. Best birthday present I ever had.” Harry glanced up at Draco then and nearly laughed out loud. Draco was looking very pale and shocked. Suddenly Harry felt a whole lot better. He could handle this after all. “Next,” said Harry, warming to the subject, “was Hermione – that was last year. And this past summer there was this cute Muggle girl that I met again from my old school.” Harry shrugged and grinned at Draco. “What can I say, Malfoy – it must be the scar. Girls just seem to find it irresistible.”

Draco looked genuinely horrified. “Does Weasley know,” he said at last, “that you slept with his girlfriend? Talk about slithering! God, Potter, I really thought you had more class than that. I can’t believe you slept with Granger.”

“Oh, bloody hell. That’s because I didn’t, you prat!” snapped Harry, stung to truth by Draco’s comments. “I did not sleep with Hermione. Or Fleur. Or any Muggle. I just now made it all up.”

A small crowd was starting to form in the corridor behind Harry and Draco, as students leaving the Great Hall from breakfast stopped to watch them. The two boys, completely oblivious to their growing audience, were speaking in very low voices, so only a word or two reached the crowd, but it was obvious from the expressions on their faces that something explosive was brewing. Harry and Draco hadn’t put on a show in some time, and everyone was dying to see what was going to happen.

Draco studied Harry through narrowed eyes, but a devilish smile was playing around the corners of his mouth. “So the correct answer to my question is. . . ”

 _Oh no_ , thought Harry. He was trapped. There was no way to avoid the ‘who’ question unless he lied about the ‘virginity’ question. So he did. “The correct answer is yes, dammit,” he said. Then a novel thought occurred to Harry, and he grinned at Draco. “I really had you going, didn’t I?”

Draco grinned back. “You know, Potter, it occurs to me that there is one more rule to this game that I forgot to mention.”

 _Uh oh_. “And that would be?” asked Harry, trying to sound unconcerned.

“That if you lie when you answer a question, your opponent gets to make two penalty moves – not in the actual chess game of course, but here, in person.”

“Oh,” said Harry, turning red again.

Draco took hold of Harry’s wrists and pulled him close. Then he slid his hands slowly up Harry’s arms until he was holding him lightly by the shoulders. He looked into Harry’s eyes. “Potter,” he said softly, “you look like one of the Christmas decorations, with those green eyes and that red face.”

“Just get it over with, Malfoy. You know when we started this, I really didn’t understand what your true intentions were.”

“Ah,” said Draco, his grip tightening on Harry’s shoulders, his mouth only a breath away from Harry’s. “You still don’t.” And he kicked Harry hard in the shin.

Harry gasped and grabbed his leg. “OW!! You _bastard!_ ”

“That was one,” said Draco. Then he stomped on Harry’s other foot. “And two. Those were for Granger. She deserves better from you, Potter.”

Harry crumpled to the floor, one hand on his aching shin, the other cradling his throbbing toes. “You really are a bastard, Malfoy,” he said.

Draco laughed. “Me? I think not. I’m afraid I’m the spitting image of my dear daddy, who was unfortunately, but quite legally, married to my mother before I was born.” He looked down on Harry with a perfectly charming smile. “Your move again, Harry.” Then with a swirl of robes, he turned on his heel and walked away.

 _Damn_ , thought Harry, as he watched Draco walk away from him. _Damn, he’s . . . arrrgh_ – Harry couldn’t even think of a word. Stunning? suggested a small voice in Harry’s mind that Harry pointedly ignored.

“HARRY!!” Harry twisted around to look behind him. It was Hermione, pushing her way through a crowd of whispering, giggling students who were standing in the corridor. She came running up, Ron right behind her. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Ron glared down at him. “We were just coming out of the Great Hall and heard there was a fight. I thought I saw Malfoy walking away from here. What did he do Harry? Did he punch you?”

Harry looked up at his two friends and started laughing. “No,” he said to Ron, “he didn’t punch me.” He looked back at Hermione’s troubled expression. “I’m okay, really,” he said. He gave his sore shin a vigorous rub, then stood up. “I only got what I deserved.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” said Hermione, shocked. “How could you possibly deserve to be beaten up by Draco Malfoy? And I thought he had changed.”

“I’m hardly beaten up, Hermione. Look – I’m fine. I just said something I shouldn’t have –”

“That’s crazy,” said Hermione.

“Completely mental,” said Ron at the same time. Then he grinned. “What did you say?”

Harry looked down at Hermione and felt very ashamed when he remembered what he had said about her. _Yes, I deserved to be kicked for that_. “Er, I really can’t repeat it, Ron,” he said. 

Ron snorted. “That good, huh? Well good for you, Harry.” He clapped Harry on the back. “Good for you.”

Suddenly a sharp voice called out, “Students! All of you – go to class!” Harry, Ron and Hermione turned to see Professor McGonagall dispersing the crowd of students gathered in the corridor. She clapped her hands three times. “GO TO CLASS!” The hall cleared almost instantly as students scurried off in all directions.

 _Oh no_ , thought Harry, as Professor McGonagall turned a disapproving eye in his direction. He felt a knot form in the pit of his stomach. _This is not good_.

Professor McGonagall strode briskly up to them. She looked directly at Harry. “I am hearing rumors that there has been a fight, Mr. Potter, involving you and Mr. Malfoy. Is that true?”

Harry thought he might shrivel up under the sternness of that look. “No,” said Harry. “It wasn’t a fight. It was. . . ” Words failed him.

Ron spoke up. “We found Harry here on the floor, Professor, and saw Malfoy walking away. I think Malfoy punched him.”

“Ron, shut up!” hissed Harry under his breath.

Professor McGonagall looked from Harry to Ron, then back to Harry. “I expected more mature behavior from you than this,” she said in her most severe tone. “You are a seventh year student, Potter, and captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. The younger students look up to you. What are they to think, now, seeing you fighting in the hall with one of the prefects?” Her lips were thin with anger. “There will be an investigation,” she continued, “but not by me. Because Draco Malfoy is a prefect, and is therefore expected to set an example for the other students, the headmaster will want to handle this personally.” She gave Harry another long appraising look. “I suggest you three get to class,” she said, then turned and walked swiftly away in the direction of her own classroom.

Harry turned on Ron. “Oh, that helped a lot, Ron. Why’d you have to say anything?”

Ron looked at Harry taken aback. “Harry, if Malfoy punched you – ”

“I _told_ you that’s not what happened!”

“All right, you two,” interrupted Hermione, grabbing their arms. “Stop it! If we don’t go right now, we’re going to be late to Potions class. And then we’ll all be in trouble with _Snape!_ ”


	4. Part I — The Setup — Chapter 4

  


_Now I’m where I want to be and who I want to be and_  
_doing what I always said I would and yet_  
_I feel I haven’t won at all._

_Don’t get me wrong_  
_I’m not complaining_  
_Times have been good_  
_Fast, entertaining_  
_But what’s the point_  
_If I’m concealing_  
_Not only love_  
_All other feeling_

Lyrics from “Where I Want To Be” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Ron, Hermione, and Harry barely got in the door and to their seats before Snape swept into the Potions classroom. He gave them all a severe look, then turned on Harry.

“Mr. Potter,” said Snape, in a silky sneering tone. “There seems to be a rumor going around that you’ve been seen brawling in the hall. I do hope for your sake that isn’t true.”

There was a snicker from the Slytherin side of the room. “Sprawling was what I heard,” said an anonymous loud whisper that elicited a round of muffled giggles.

Harry didn’t say anything, he had learned from long experience not to respond to Snape’s jibes. He just kept his eyes down until Snape turned away and went up to his desk. Then he glanced up to where Draco was sitting in the first seat in the row of tables on his left. Draco had his face buried very conscientiously in his Advanced Potions text. Harry couldn’t tell if he was laughing or not. Out of the corner of his eye though, he could see that Ron was turning purple, and seemed to be puffing up in a very frightening way, as Snape very pointedly ignored Malfoy’s involvement in the morning’s incident.

Snape opened the potions text on his desk, then turned around and faced the class with narrowed eyes. “Very well, Potter. Since you won’t discuss this morning’s rumor, perhaps you’d like to explain to the class what the ingredients for today’s potion are?”

There was a silence that lasted several heartbeats, broken only by stifled tittering from one of the Slytherins. “Sir?” said Harry in a very unsteady voice. _What the hell was today’s potion?_

“The ingredients were clearly listed in last night’s reading assignment, Potter.”

 _Oh God_ , thought Harry. He’d been too involved with Ron and Hermione’s announcement, and then too upset last night to do all his homework. Everyone in the class turned around to look at him, except Draco, who seemed to be ignoring everything, and was busily writing on a piece of parchment on his desk. Harry glanced quickly over at Ron and Hermione, who were sitting together in the row on Harry’s right, and who were looking stricken and extremely guilty respectively. Evidently they hadn’t read the assignment either, which shocked Harry even more – well, not that Ron hadn’t read it.

Very slowly, Snape began walking back toward Harry’s desk. “We’re waiting, Mr. Potter,” said Snape with a delighted sneer.

“Er . . . yes, sir,” said Harry, stalling, his voice still shaking. “I – ”

A motion at the front of the row on Harry’s left caught his eye. Draco had turned around for the first time to look back at him. Harry’s gaze shot over to Draco and their eyes met. Draco seemed to be trying very hard to keep a straight face, and when Harry looked at him, he raised one eyebrow and stealthily slid a piece of parchment out from behind the drape of his sleeve. On it, in big block letters were written a list of potion ingredients. No one else could see it because everyone had their backs to Draco in order to watch Harry. Harry didn’t stop to question if Draco might be setting him up with the wrong answers. He sat straight up and read as fast as he could.

Harry barely finished reading, as Snape reached his desk. He pulled his eyes away from the list, and looked up at the professor. “I think,” he said slowly, “the ingredients were, er, one . . . lizard tongue, uh, a teaspoon of chopped . . . blackcap mushroom gills, um . . . three toenails of a . . .” _Of a what?_ He glanced back toward Draco, but the list had vanished. “. . . three toenails of a . . . a giant shrew, a pinch of powdered salamander, and . . . and . . . five drops of strangling ivy sap – ”

Snape was looking down at Harry with increasingly undisguised irritation at each correct answer. Then Harry stopped cold. Snape seemed to be looming over him, waiting . . . 

_Oh bloody hell_ , thought Harry, _what was the rest of it? What was the last ingredient? Six something-to-do-with-butter_. “And six butterfly wings?” said Harry hopefully.

Snape’s eyes lit up, and he smiled a nasty smile. “WRONG, Potter! Five points from Gryffindor, for coming to class unprepared.”

Harry gulped, and looked back at Draco.

In the same second, Snape spun around and also looked at Draco. “Mr. Malfoy!” he called out smugly.

For a split second, Harry saw on Draco’s face that he thought they’d been caught, then Draco’s expression smoothed out.

“Sir?”

“Please tell us the correct final ingredient.”

“Six bottles of butterbeer, sir?” said Draco with a straight face. Snickers broke out all over the room. Even Harry laughed.

Snape looked for a moment like Mad Eye Moody, his eyes bulging in different directions. He glared at Draco. “Well, well,” said Snape, viciously. “I expected _you_ to know the answer, Malfoy.” Snape turned in a circle in the room giving every student a cold stare. “HAS NO ONE IN HERE DONE LAST NIGHT’S ASSIGNMENT?” Harry could see Ron turning purple again presumably because Snape hadn’t taken points from Slytherin for Draco’s wrong answer.

Then Snape’s gaze stopped and lingered on Hermione. Harry saw a look of horror appear in her eyes. Was Snape actually going to call on her – the one time in her whole life when she hadn’t studied? A very slow smirk appeared on his face. Then he whirled around. “Mr. Longbottom!”

A frightened squeak sounded from the front of Harry’s row.

“Do _you_ know the answer, Mr. Longbottom?”

A small quivering voice from the front of the room said, “Six buttercup petals, sir?”

“Hmm,” growled Snape. “Correct.” He walked stiffly back up to the front of the room and stared down his nose at Neville. “Go on, then. What’s the name of this potion?”

“It’s a Hex Repellent, sir. Commonly known as ‘Hex-Off’, sir.”

“Hmm,” said Snape again, stroking his chin, still staring at Neville. “I’m impressed, Longbottom. Your performance in this class has improved.” He turned and glared out over the class. “It seems you have all reached a new low,” he hissed, “when LONGBOTTOM is the only person in here who KNOWS THE ASSIGNMENT!”

Snape sat back against his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. He leveled another intensely nasty gaze at everyone in the room. “The consequence of your negligence is that now you will all have to listen to me lecture on what you should have read.” A chorus of ill-disguised moans broke out like a rash across the room. Snape cleared his throat in warning, and the moans cut themselves off abruptly.

“The Hex Repellant Potion that is discussed in your text,” began Snape, “is, if properly concocted, very effective at making the user impervious to even the most powerful hexes, and has also been known to greatly reduce the impact of curses. However, it is quite short lived – usually lasting only an hour or two at most. What your text does _not_ tell you is that there is a more powerful variation. . . ”

Harry tuned Snape out. The events of last night and this morning with Draco were entirely too unsettling, entirely too fantastic and unbelievable, for him to keep them out of his mind for more than a few minutes. He felt like he needed to go shut himself up in a dark closet somewhere and try to think. He couldn’t seem to take it all in. The one thing that _had_ finally crashed through into clarity though, in that same unsubtle way that grand pianos have of crashing down on you when dropped from several stories up, was that . . . Draco Malfoy liked him. As in holding hands and kissing and . . . oh my God . . . _liked_ him.

Harry felt his ears do a slow burn. He let his eyes slide over to the left and up to the front table. Draco was taking notes, his attention riveted on Snape. Harry looked back over at Snape and tuned in to the lecture again for a moment, just to see what Draco found so fascinating.

“This variation,” Snape was saying, “allows the user to concentrate the power of the potion in an object that the user can wear, thus increasing its effectiveness up to two or three weeks. The normal potion ingredients are used, with the addition of shredded boomslang skin stirred into an infusion of forget-me-nots. These last two ingredients are not available to students, so I have a few samples here on my desk for you to study. The object is to be soaked for 24-48 hours. . . ”

Harry looked back at Draco, and an entirely new idea occurred to him – that Draco was _good_ at Potions. Somehow Harry had always thought that Draco made a point of knowing the right answers in this class just to show Harry up, and to be insufferably irritating, but maybe . . . _maybe_ . . . it was because Draco _studied_ , and was really _interested_ in this potions stuff! Harry watched Draco, noticing the way he was taking careful notes, the way he was actually listening to Snape, the way his brows were furrowed a little in concentration, the way his hair looked so soft and silky and pretty – !!! Harry choked, jerked his gaze back to Snape, and tried to pretend that he was paying attention.

Snape was asking, “Who can tell me a practical application of the Hex Repellant Potion?”

One of the Slytherin girls raised her hand. “If you use it before you have a wizard’s duel, the other wizard can’t hex you.”

Harry heard a familiar snort, and then heard Ron mutter, “I think that’s called cheating.”

Snape spun around, and speared Ron with a narrowed stare. “No, Mr. Weasley,” he said in an unpleasantly condescending tone, “it’s called using an _intelligent_ precaution, something _you_ wouldn’t be expected to understand.” There was another rash of sniggering from the Slytherin section of the room.

Harry let his mind drift away again, though he kept his eyes on Snape, to at least keep up the pretense of paying attention. One thing was bothering Harry immensely. He might as well let himself think about it. Draco had kissed him last night . . . no, not just kissed him – had kissed him like _that_. And then had said to Harry this morning, “ _If you’re so straight, how come you liked it so much?_ ” That one statement, made so certainly, was tying Harry into knots. _I know I’m straight_ , he told himself. _For God’s sake, I’ve even slept with a girl. And thought we were in love._ But Harry couldn’t explain why he had never felt the way that one kiss last night had made him feel. And how the bloody hell had Malfoy _known_ that?

Harry couldn’t help it – he let his gaze slide back over to Draco. Draco had stopped writing and was now staring into space as if deep in thought. Harry’s eyes took in the perfect profile, the abstracted half-smile, the lock of hair that fell behind Draco’s ear and curled against his neck. Harry’s attention was suddenly fixed by that spot, just below Draco’s ear, that was framed by that lock of soft blond hair. It looked somehow quite inexplicably adorable, so very compelling and. . . and kissable – 

“MR. POTTER!!!”

Harry jerked upright. Snape was staring at him, his black eyes glittering.

“I asked you a question, Potter, but you haven’t heard a word, have you?”

Harry felt nauseous. Everyone in the class turned around again to look at him, including Draco. “No, sir,” he said. “Sorry,” he added in a small voice.

“Perhaps,” said Snape in his most venomous tone, “I should excuse you to go to the hospital wing. Evidently, that tumble you took in the hall this morning shook loose the last little bit of your brain that was still connected. Five points from Gryffindor, _again_ , Potter.”

Harry kept his eyes averted from Draco’s direction, but he was very aware that the other boy was now watching him intently. His last thought about Draco suddenly came back to him in all its startling, mortifying, horribleness. Harry blushed and sank down low in his seat. He felt _very_ nauseous. _Oh God_ , he thought, _let me throw up now, so I can be excused from this class_.

The rest of the class period, however, passed without incident. Evidently Snape did not intend for them to actually concoct this potion themselves – which was a good thing, Harry thought gratefully – he could just picture everyone trying to hex each other to test the potions, and the students with failed potions going about with giant swollen body parts, or spider legs coming out of their heads, or other equally revolting results of inventive and ineffectually averted hex-making.

At one point, Snape made everyone come up to his desk to look at the restricted potion ingredients he had brought in. Harry tried to stand as far away from Draco as possible, though he noticed that Draco was extremely interested in picking up several of the samples and examining them closely. Harry also, at the same time, tried to be invisible to Snape. But apparently, Snape had had enough of him for one class period, and didn’t even glance in his direction anyway.

At last, the class was over, and before a relieved Harry could even start to worry about what he might have to say to Draco if they ran into each other on the way out, he looked up and Draco was already gone. Hermione and Ron, however, pounced on him the moment he stepped into the hall.

“Harry!” said Ron with deep exasperation written clearly on his face. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been acting completely mental all morning!”

Harry gave Ron a rather black look, then started walking to their next class. His two friends exchanged a glance, and hurried to catch up to him.

“It’s not anything to do with . . . us – with what we told you last night, is it?” asked Hermione, worried, as they walked. “We thought that seeing us together might be making you feel upset again . . . you know, about breaking up with – ”

“No!” said Harry, cutting her off. “It’s not that. Or maybe it is a little. But you guys know I’m really happy for you. I just have . . . something on my mind.”

“Well,” snorted Ron. “Whatever that something is, we know for sure it isn’t potions.”

“Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione, punching him in the arm. “You are not helping here.” She turned back to Harry. “Harry, you know you can talk to us – or me, anyway,” she said, glaring at a suddenly contrite and stricken Ron, “if you need to.”

“I know, Hermione. Thanks. But right now, I just need to sort through things on my own a bit.”

Thankfully for Harry, their next class, which met with the Hufflepuffs, was History of Magical Mysteries, taught by Professor Binns. And since almost everyone except Hermione slept through this class while Binns droned on interminably about antiquated wizards and spells, the magical mysteries were just as mysterious after the lecture as before. But Binns never called on anyone, and it would finally give Harry a chance to think. Advanced Potions, which for seventh years, met every day, was the only class he had this term with Draco, so now that that was over, Harry wouldn’t have to see him again until tomorrow. And that was certainly a relief, wasn’t it? _Well?_ That was the very thing Harry wanted to think about. What did he want to do about Malfoy?

Harry slid down in his seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. He let his head fall forward, his eyes fixed staring and unfocused on his desktop. Harry tried to recall exactly the words Draco had said to him last night:

_“Would you believe me if I said that most of what you think you know about me was just an act I put on, to hide what I really felt?”_

_“If it was acting, you were very good at it – it seemed quite real.”_

_“I am good at it. But that doesn’t make it real.”_

His heart told him now what his shocked emotions last night had kept him from seeing – that the Draco he had met last night – seen in life for the very first time – was real. He had always hated Draco Malfoy – or hated the Draco Malfoy that the other boy had pretended to be. Maybe what he had really hated was the feeling of falseness he had always sensed in Draco, that sneering, arrogant, insufferable attitude that had constantly frustrated him because he also felt that there was something underneath it all that he wanted to know, but was never allowed to see. He certainly hadn’t hated the boy who had talked to him last night, who had laughed with him, and had touched him with such surprising tenderness.

In fact, there had been a quiet gentleness about that boy that had caught Harry completely off-guard, and had captured Harry’s interest in a way that no one else ever had. Harry remembered how hurt he had felt afterward when he thought it hadn’t been real. _But oh_ , said his heart, and Harry felt a fluttery feeling stirring inside him, _last night_ had _been real_.

Then his thoughts shifted back to the last time he had had these kinds of feelings, and a lump rose up in his throat. It still hurt every time he thought of her. Harry had believed that she loved him, that they were starting a future together. They had made love on the last night of the school year last year, before summer break separated them, and for Harry that had been the expression of what he believed was to be a life-long commitment. In the morning, she had told him, sadly and gently, but with irrevocable finality, that it was over.

Harry had been completely, totally, devastated and horribly shocked. Somehow, he had ended up in Dumbledore’s office sobbing out the story and begging to be allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. He couldn’t bear the thought of having to face the terrible Dursleys – hell, he couldn’t even bear to face his friends right then. So with Dumbledore’s permission, everyone else had left on the train that morning and Harry had stayed behind. And he had never told anyone else about what had happened. He let Ron and Hermione believe that the relationship had broken up over the summer. They knew only that Harry had been very upset, because he refused to talk about it.

Over the summer he had worked at Hogwarts, doing whatever odd jobs were found for him. Often he had helped Hagrid, sometimes even Filch, though that had not improved his relationship with the crotchety caretaker. And he had spent a lot of time thinking. Finally, he had come to a kind of tenuous acceptance of the break-up, and even was able to acknowledge that though the sexual experience had been extremely significant for him, he had also felt that something important had been missing. It hadn’t touched him as deeply as he had expected it to. Now he knew that what had been missing was that she had always known they couldn’t be together, had always kept herself somewhat reserved. She had not let herself be truly involved, or in love with him.

So what had made that very brief kiss with Draco feel so intense, so perfect? How had that moved him so deeply? Draco had said, _“I’m actually quite sure there is someone here that would love to kiss you like that.”_ And what had Draco meant when he said he had been hiding what he really felt? _And why am I not more shocked at this!?_ That in itself was rather startling.

There was suddenly so much Harry wanted to know – so many questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to feel again the way he had felt talking with Draco, listening to him, confiding in him, that very unexpected moment when Draco had seemed to understand his fear of being alone so well. He had never experienced any kind of sexual interest in another boy, but when he thought about how he had felt with Draco’s body and lips pressed against his, he felt an ache of longing, and that strange fluttery excitement stirring deep inside him. He was rather uncomfortable with those feelings, or with following that line of thought any further, and Draco’s suggestion of what would happen if _he_ won the chess game, was something Harry didn’t want to think about at all.

But first things first. What did he want to do about Malfoy? He wanted to see him again. Alone. Without fifty other students watching. And he wanted to ask him about a million questions. And that was that. He would take the rest one step at a time.

Harry felt a sharp poke in his shoulder. “Psst.” He turned his head, startled from his thoughts, and looked at Ron.

“Harry,” whispered Ron. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” whispered Harry back. “Much better.”

* * * * * 

By the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione got to the Great Hall for lunch, Harry was feeling quite good. His world had abruptly tilted in an entirely unexpected direction, but Harry thought he had regained his balance within it. And with that, his confidence. In fact, he was sort of excited. When they walked into the Great Hall, Harry immediately looked for Draco. The blond was sitting in his usual place, seemingly involved in a heated discussion with the two Slytherin sixth-year girls who had giggled at him in the hall that morning. Draco was shaking his head, and looked both amused and murderous.

Harry dished up his lunch, with a bit more attention than he had his breakfast, and was just starting to eat, when a small rolled parchment appeared next to his plate. He was startled – was it meant for him? He picked it up and read the tag. “Harry Potter.” _Hmmm_. Harry untied the ribbon and unrolled the note. It read:

   
 

> _Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _I would like to see you in my office immediately following your afternoon  
>  classes. A report of a disturbing incident has come to my attention that I feel  
>  I must discuss with you and Mr. Malfoy. Please be prompt._
> 
> _A. Dumbledore_

   
 

Harry gulped. He had completely forgotten McGonagall’s lecture this morning. He quickly glanced over to the Slytherin table. Draco was reading an identical note and had turned extremely pale. Draco also looked up, directly at Harry and their eyes met for a second. But even in that mere second of contact, Harry picked up a distinct feeling of alarm in the other boy’s gaze. Then Draco looked down, pushed away from the table and walked out of the Great Hall. Harry had to fight the urge to chase after him again.

“Hey, what’s that, Harry?”

Ron was leaning over his arm trying to see the note. Harry shoved it at him.

“Looks like a love note,” piped up Seamus, grinning.

Ron quickly scanned the message, then whistled. “Oh, Harry. This is bad.” He handed the note over to Hermione. Hermione read it silently and passed it to Seamus.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” said Ron miserably. “If I hadn’t said that bit about punching and fighting to McGonagall – ”

“Never mind me, Ron,” said Harry in a hard voice. “I don’t think I’ll get in much trouble. But what about Malfoy? He’s a prefect. What if Dumbledore expels him? It would be my fault!”

Ron looked at Harry for a minute as if he had grown two heads – with antennae. “You’re worried about _Malfoy!?_ ”

“YES!” said Harry. “I am. Because he’s stayed out of trouble all this year – until I provoked him this morning.”

“Harry’s right, Ron,” said Hermione. “I’ve talked to him a good bit lately, since I’m Head Girl and he’s a prefect – he’s really been trying to change.”

Ron dropped his face into his hands in disgusted disbelief, and muttered something that sounded like, “when trolls do ballet.”

Harry ignored him. He looked at Seamus. “I’ll be late for Quidditch practice this afternoon. Will you take over for me and get everyone started?” Seamus had joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team in sixth-year as a Beater, to replace one of the Weasley twins, and had turned out to be very good at it.

“Aye, aye, Capt’n,” said Seamus. “I’ll just say you were unavoidably detained in the company of a gorgeous blond.” Seamus grinned at Harry’s startled expression, then shrugged. “It’s only God’s simple truth, isn’t it? Draco Malfoy _is_ the best looking thing in this school.”

Harry felt his face flush. He heard a rude gagging noise coming from somewhere behind Ron’s hands. “Just tell them I had a meeting with a teacher, Seamus, thank you.”

“You’re no fun, Harry.”

 _Oh, if you only knew_.

* * * * * 

Harry arrived at the gargoyle that marked the entrance to Dumbledore’s office, and found Draco already there, slumped with his back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes studiously locked on the toes of his boots. What Harry could see of Draco’s face, beneath the fringe of silver blond hair that had fallen forward to cover his eyes, was very pale. Suddenly Harry realized that while he had known since this morning that McGonagall was going to report them, and that this would be the probable result, Draco had had no warning, no idea of it until he got Dumbledore’s summons at lunch. _He looks really worried – scared even_ , thought Harry.

Harry paused for a heartbeat, then deliberately went to stand right next to Draco, close enough that their shoulders were almost touching. He leaned back against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest too, but his face was turned toward Draco so that he could watch the other boy. Draco didn’t move, or acknowledge Harry’s arrival. 

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, how to respond to a scared and silent Malfoy. All the Draco-Malfoy-responses that he had relied on for so long that they were nearly automatic, were beyond inappropriate, vastly wrong. What on earth did you say to someone who had been your enemy and then let you know that their feelings had changed? And if Harry was having this kind of trouble knowing what to say, when he knew now that Draco liked him, he suddenly appreciated with some amazement how much courage it must have taken for Draco to come up to him last night, sit down and talk to him. Draco had risked the very rejection that had hurt him in the first place, and had allowed Harry to see his real self.

 _In fact_ , Harry realized, _he’s being quite honest with me right now. Letting me see he’s scared, not trying to hide it_. The significance of that was rather profound. With that realization came a budding sense of sympathy and a need to give comfort that Harry could relate to and act on. “Hey, Malfoy,” he said softly. After a long moment of silence, he added, “That was really great – what you did for me in Potions class. It would have been better if I could have remembered that last bit, though.”

Draco shifted his shoulders a little, a hint of his classic shrug, and continued staring at the toes of his boots.

There was another extremely long silence. Harry wanted very much to raise Draco’s spirits a little, see him smile again. “Those are nice boots, Malfoy,” he said at last, a hint of friendly teasing in his voice. “Very _striking_. In fact, I noticed them this morning – they made quite an impression on me.”

Draco glanced briefly over at Harry through his hair. A slight smile appeared for a fleeting moment, then faded. “McGonagall’s up there now,” he said finally in a very low voice. “Somebody told her we were fighting.”

“It was the _fifty_ somebodies that were watching us this morning,” said Harry in an equally low voice. He figured it would be best not to mention Ron. “McGonagall turned up just after you walked off. I told her we weren’t fighting, but I guess she thought I was trying to keep from getting in trouble. Gave me one bloody hell of a lecture.”

“I just got it too, before she went up.” There was a pause, then Draco said, “Did you really tell her we weren’t fighting?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “But I didn’t know what else to say – about what we _were_ doing. I’m sure it sounded pretty lame.”

Draco leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. He sighed. “I am so screwed, Harry.”

“Oh, hey,” said Harry, trying his best to sound reassuring. “I don’t think so. Dumbledore has always been fair. It’s not like we were magic dueling, or anyone got hurt.”

Draco turned to face Harry and looked at him for the first time. “But there’s something you don’t know.”

Harry turned his shoulder to the wall so that he and Draco were face to face. Their eyes met, gray melting into green melting into gray, and Harry suddenly couldn’t think about Dumbledore, or about being in trouble, or about anything except what was happening right then between him and Draco. Even the air seemed to tremble between them. He took a deep breath, and gathered all his courage and daring. “There’s something I _want_ to know,” he said softly. “You’ve always hated me. I don’t understand this sudden change, why you . . . like me now – I’d like to know that.”

Draco stood very still for a moment, looking into Harry’s eyes. “You really don’t know do you?” Then he lifted one hand, brushed away Harry’s unruly fringe, and gently traced a zigzag line down Harry’s forehead. A small smile played around the corners of his mouth, and one delicate eyebrow twitched upward. “It’s the scar, Harry. What can I say, I just seem to find it irresistible.”

Harry gave a short laugh, and colored slightly at the electricity he felt in that touch, and at the reminder of his terrible lie that morning. But he shook his head, never letting his eyes leave Draco’s. “I’m not buying that, Malfoy.”

Draco met Harry’s gaze steadily. He took a deep breath. “I’ve always liked you,” he said quietly. “From the first time I saw you, when you came into Madam Malkin’s, even before I found out who you were.” He paused. “But, Harry – ” he said, even softer, “ _you_ didn’t like _me_.”

“Oh,” said Harry. That was true. And Harry’s world tilted just a little bit more so that he truly saw how his dislike and rejection had hurt Draco. “ _Terribly, horribly, and down to the bone_ ,” Draco had said last night. And though Harry had apologized last night, the full impact of it hadn’t hit him until now. _Still_ , he thought, _even if I had known, it wouldn’t have changed anything – I couldn’t have liked him the way he was then_. But Harry, being Harry, didn’t like knowing he had hurt anyone – and it was sad that they had wasted so much time at each other’s throats.

Draco, looking into Harry’s eyes, was able to read a lot of Harry’s internal dialog. He saw the understanding and the apology surface in Harry’s green gaze, and was quite touched. “Never mind,” he said. “I know what an awful brat I was. I don’t blame you for not liking me – not now.” Then he smiled for the first time since they had started talking, as something about Harry’s relieved expression reminded him of that morning in class. He raised one eyebrow, and the smile turned into an impishly cute version of his old smirk, his gray eyes lit with a teasing warmth. “You really were a spectacle in Potions class today, you know,” he said.

Harry knew that he should say something, make some kind of witty retort, but Draco’s smile and the look in his eyes was doing something very mysterious to the stability of his knees. He smiled back, feeling foolish and not able to help it. He suddenly felt quite tongue-tied.

Draco stepped slightly closer to Harry. “In fact, you’re being a bit of a spectacle, now,” he said tenderly. He laid his hand on the wall very close to Harry’s shoulder.

Harry felt his face flush.

Draco laughed softly. “I love the way I can make you blush, Harry. It’s so much more fun than making you angry. I’m sorry I didn’t discover it sooner.”

Harry looked down, breaking the eye contact, his feelings running into a confused muddle of embarrassment and thrill at Draco’s closeness. He was desperately trying to think of something to say to shift the conversation back onto safer ground. Draco’s earlier mention of Potions class made Harry remember the thought he’d had during class about Draco’s success in potions. “I’ve never done very well in Potions class. But you’re really good at it,” he said, and then he added, “I just can’t seem to get it, sometimes.”

“I’m really interested in it,” replied Draco with some enthusiasm. “And Snape is one of the best Potions masters there is – he knows the most amazing stuff.” Draco laughed as Harry looked up at that with a very pained and skeptical expression. “I know. Sometimes he can be a real arse- ”

Draco was cut off in mid-epithet as the gargoyle behind him suddenly jumped up out of the way, and the wall behind it split open. Professor McGonagall stepped out, and fixed the two boys with a stern eye. If she was surprised to see them standing so close together, she didn’t show it. “Go straight up,” she said in a clipped tone, as she waved them toward the door. “Professor Dumbledore is waiting for you.”

All the color and animation drained from Draco’s face, and he turned very pale again, but he turned around and went resolutely through the door first. Harry followed him closely, and the wall sealed itself shut behind them with a hollow thud. Draco stopped short at the bottom of the spiral staircase, so that Harry nearly walked right into him.

“Have you ever been up there before?” asked Harry.

“Once,” said Draco. “You?”

Harry sighed. “Lots of times.”

Draco turned slightly and looked at Harry, then tossed his hair back and grinned. “Cool office, isn’t it?”

“Awesome,” said Harry. But Harry wasn’t sure if he meant Dumbledore’s office or Draco, because somehow, even though Harry knew Draco was scared, between one second and the next, the other boy had regained his seemingly unshakable poise and confidence. _How does he do that?_ marveled Harry.

Draco turned away and stepped onto the moving stairs. Harry waited a moment, then stepped on also. And it wasn’t until he was almost to the top, that Harry remembered what Draco had said down below in the corridor. _What is the something I don’t know?_ he wondered. But it was too late to ask, because Draco was already lifting the brass griffin knocker on Dumbledore’s door.


	5. Part I — The Setup — Chapter 5

  


_This is the one situation I wanted most to avoid_

_My dear opponent – I really can’t imagine why_

_So I am not dangerous then? – what a shame!_

_Oh you’re not dangerous – who could think that of you?_

_You – you are so strange – why can’t you be what you ought to be?_  
_You should be scheming, intriguing, too clever by half –_

Lyrics from “Mountain Duet” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Draco tapped twice with the knocker, and the large oak door swung open, just as Harry got to the top of the stairs. “Mr. Malfoy . . . Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore, nodding at each of them in turn from his seat in the great chair behind the desk. His voice was grave, and he gazed sternly at them over the top of his half-moon glasses, as they came to stand in front of him. Harry thought he had never seen those light-blue eyes look so unsympathetic, and he felt his stomach drop to somewhere down by his shoes. Maybe this was not going to go as easily as he had hoped. Dumbledore steepled his fingers as he fixed them silently with that pale blue gaze, seemingly at a loss for words to express his complete and utter disappointment in them.

Harry stole a quick glance at Draco. Draco was standing still and straight, his eyes downcast in an attitude of resignation. He was pale, but his chin was up slightly, a gesture not of defiance but courage, of brave acceptance of his fate. And Harry suddenly knew that this time Draco was not going to argue or defend himself, or try to blame Harry, or talk his way out of any punishment. _He really has changed_ , thought Harry, with increasing concern for what was going to happen to him.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Dumbledore in a quiet but severe tone. “It has been reported to me that a great many students witnessed an incident between yourself and Mr. Potter this morning, specifically that you first kicked Mr. Potter in the shin, and then stomped on his foot. Is that true?”

Harry knew he shouldn’t, absolutely could not laugh, but the picture of how silly and ridiculous he must have looked welled up in him suddenly, and he nearly did. He looked over at Draco again, and saw Draco bite his lower lip, fighting to keep a straight face, too.

“Yes, sir,” said Draco, in a slightly constrained voice.

“And did you not,” continued the headmaster, “make a solemn promise to me at the beginning of this school year, when I agreed to make you a prefect, that you would absolutely _not_ fight with Harry Potter? That you would leave him strictly alone?”

There was a long pause. “Yes sir,” said Draco softly, all traces of amusement gone.

Harry sobered instantly. _Oh no_ , he thought. _This was what I didn’t know. But we weren’t fighting. And I . . . I don’t want him to leave me alone_. “Professor Dumbledore, sir?” said Harry, trying to interrupt as politely as possible. “May I say something?”

Dumbledore turned a quelling gaze on Harry. “No, Mr. Potter, you may not,” he said firmly. “You will have your chance to speak in due time.”

Harry felt a large aching lump form in the back of his throat as Dumbledore turned his attention back to Draco.

“Until today,” Dumbledore continued, as if Harry had not spoken, “I believed that you were going to be able to keep that promise.” Then he added, in an even sterner tone, “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you would have been made Head Boy this year, if your behavior, particularly where Mr. Potter is concerned, had not been so disruptive in the past. Your grades are the highest of anyone in your year – you are either ahead or tied this term with Miss Granger for best marks in every subject.” Here he paused and eyed Harry severely, too, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of anger in his voice that shook Harry. “But I am particularly disappointed that the two of you must persist in antagonizing each other. That behavior is simply not acceptable or appropriate to your year and positions in this school, and as such, will no longer be tolerated in any way.” Dumbledore stood up. “Is that clear to both of you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry and Draco together.

“Mr. Malfoy?”

“Sir?”

“A prefect must set an example for the other students. I am taking 20 points from Slytherin House for your behavior this morning, and another 30 points for breaking your promise to me. I am also putting you on probation. If there are any further incidents involving you and Mr. Potter, you will be removed from office, and possibly expelled.”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco, barely audible.

Harry was sure he had heard a tremor in Draco’s voice. He was so pale now as to be almost ashen. Harry had never seen Draco so close to losing his faultless poise. And it wasn’t fair.

“And,” Dumbledore continued, “you and Mr. Potter will both serve detention.”

Harry couldn’t stay silent any longer. “But sir,” he said with quiet determination, “there’s something you should know first.”

Dumbledore turned to Harry and frowned. “Mr. Potter,” he said firmly, “I have lost patience with excuses. If you and Mr. Malfoy are going to fight, then I think it’s only fair that both of you serve detention.”

“I will, sir,” said Harry with resolve, “because I deserve it. But Draco doesn’t. What happened this morning was entirely my fault. I don’t think it’s fair to punish him at all.”

Dumbledore stared at Harry.

Draco, too, turned to stare at Harry.

And in the very noticeable moment of silence that followed, a little voice in the back of Harry’s mind was screaming at him that he had just called Draco Malfoy by his first name. Harry felt his face flush.

“Harry, no – ” whispered Draco. “You don’t have to do this.”

* * * * * 

Professor Dumbledore stood for a moment and simply stared at Harry, then really looked at Harry intently. He stroked his beard a couple of times. He had become so weary of the seemingly incessant warfare between these two boys, that he hadn’t noticed until this moment what was actually going on, here, right now. Where were the angry faces, the blaming, the insults, the thinly disguised mutual urge to inflict bodily harm? Why weren’t they at opposite ends of the room glaring hate and unspeakable death at each other, as usual? Dumbledore studied Harry’s very honest, and right now, very earnest young face. It was obvious that Harry was completely sincere. Then to add to Dumbledore’s puzzlement, Harry blushed. On top of that, next, he heard Draco’s whispered protest to Harry. Since when did these two call each other by their first names!?

Perplexed, Dumbledore turned to look at Draco to see how he was reacting to Harry’s statement, and what he saw made him sit down quite suddenly in his chair. He spared a fleeting thought to the fact that his mouth was hanging open and closed it. There was absolutely no mistaking the look on Draco’s face as he looked at Harry. Dumbledore’s best quill quite suddenly “accidentally” fell off the desk onto the floor, and the headmaster dived after it so that he could have a moment under the desk to compose himself. It would not do at all to laugh.

 _So the pendulum has swung!_ thought Dumbledore. Oh heavens above, how it had swung. He’d always wondered if there was something else lurking behind the intensity of the reactions these two had to each other, beneath their unceasing and relentless inability to leave each other alone. And it looked like Draco, at least, had discovered that there was. But what about Harry? This development would definitely bear watching. Dumbledore came back up a moment later with the wayward quill, and what he hoped was a straight face.

He turned to Harry again, and cleared his throat slightly. “I see,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “Perhaps you should explain that, Harry.”

“I tried to explain to Professor McGonagall this morning,” said Harry, very seriously. “That we weren’t fighting. I know it must have looked that way, but it wasn’t.” Suddenly Harry blushed again, and looked slightly startled.

“Go on, Harry,” said Dumbledore, struggling again to keep his face stern-looking. “If you weren’t fighting, what were you doing?”

“Er, playing a . . . a game,” said Harry, who seemed to be getting redder by the minute. Dumbledore saw him glance swiftly at Draco, who he now noticed had moved so that he was standing so close to Harry that their shoulders were almost touching, no – were touching, and who was staring at the wall behind Dumbledore with a faintly bemused and abstracted expression. _This is getting very funny_ , thought Dumbledore. _No, no – can’t think funny_. 

“A game?” prompted Dumbledore to Harry, in a slightly choked voice. _Oh my stars and whiskers! Are they HOLDING HANDS!?_ A crystal paperweight suddenly rolled off Dumbledore’s desk, and he had to fish around under the desk for several minutes before he could find it and restore it to its proper position. When he came back up, Draco had moved slightly away from Harry.

“Sorry,” said Dumbledore, his mustaches twitching. “Sometimes these things have a mind of their own. But, you were saying, Harry – that you and Draco were playing a game?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, unhappily. He glanced at Draco again. “And I . . . er, I . . . broke one of the rules, so he got two penalty moves.”

“And, I take it, the two moves were to kick you and stomp your foot.” 

“Yes, sir.” Harry looked ready to sink into the floor. “We didn’t know anyone was watching.”

Dumbledore turned to Draco. “Is this what happened?”

“Well, yes, sir,” said Draco, now serious. “But I know I shouldn’t have – ”

“And you weren’t going to say anything, about not really fighting, or not keeping your promise to me?”

“No, sir.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Because I did break part of my promise, sir. I didn’t leave him alone, and I’m ready to take whatever consequences you think are fair.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard for several minutes, considering. “Harry,” he said at last, “do I understand correctly that you have no complaint against Mr. Malfoy for what he did?”

“No, sir – none,” responded Harry in a hopeful tone.

“Well,” said Dumbledore, “it did look like a fight, so you will understand if I have to do something that looks like a punishment?” Both boys nodded agreement. “Then 20 points will be taken from both Slytherin and Gryffindor. There will be no additional points taken from Slytherin, nor will I put you on probation, Mr. Malfoy. But I will not remove the detention unless you both give me your most solemn word that there will be no more fighting between you. Do I have it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Thank you, sir,” said Draco. “It won’t happen again. I intend to keep my promise.”

“But sir,” said Harry, then hesitated. He looked down at the floor, and his face turned red again. “Does . . . er . . . Draco . . . still have to keep that other part . . . ”

Dumbledore had run out of things to have accidentally drop off his desk, so he stroked his mustache with one hand as a cover-up for the smile he couldn’t hide. Draco was gazing at Harry with that look again. “You mean what I said about him promising to leave you strictly alone, Harry?”

Harry looked up. “Yes,” he said softly. “It seems . . . unnecessary, sir.”

“Very well, I won’t hold him to that any longer,” said Dumbledore, moving his hand and letting Harry see his smile. Harry smiled back. So did Draco. And for a moment, Dumbledore was completely stunned. He had never seen Draco Malfoy smile – not like this, not a real, genuine, heart-felt smile. _God, that boy could break every heart from here to eternity with that smile_. That was a very sobering thought.

Dumbledore, of course, knew all about Harry’s devastating break-up at the beginning of last summer. In fact, he suspected that he was the only one who knew the whole story, and he didn’t want to see Harry hurt again. Could Draco be trusted with Harry’s heart? Harry, who had been so broken-hearted at the end of the last school year that Dumbledore had allowed him to stay at Hogwarts all summer. Harry, who had never been loved by family, who felt this lack the way someone else might feel the absence of a missing arm or leg, or half a body. Draco had obviously somehow managed to open a door between them, and it was equally obvious that Harry was standing on the doorstep. Dumbledore had no doubt that he wanted to walk through it, _would_ walk through it.

Dumbledore turned and nodded to Draco. “Draco,” he said, “you may go. I am pleased to find that you are taking your word to me seriously, after all.” Then he turned to Harry. “Harry, please stay for a moment, I’d like to speak with you a little longer, if I may.”

Draco moved past Harry to the door. He turned around just before he went out, glanced briefly at Harry, then turned to Dumbledore. “Thank you again, sir,” he said, then he closed the door quietly after himself.

Dumbledore sat down in his chair, and motioned for Harry to sit, too. He picked up the small crystal paperweight, and rolled it around between his hands thoughtfully. “Harry,” he said finally, “I won’t pretend not to see that things have changed between you and Draco. I have to say that, on the whole, I am extremely pleased by this. But, do you understand that he could hurt you so much more this way than ever before?” Dumbledore held up one hand at Harry’s shocked expression. “No, I’m not saying you shouldn’t trust him, or that you shouldn’t be friends with him. But I am saying that right now, he has a very uncertain future, and that loving him may have consequences for you, for both of you, that none of us can foresee.”

Harry slumped down in his chair and studied the floor. “I believe I have a rather uncertain future myself, sir,” he said very softly. After a moment he added, “I just want to find out what the truth is. It seems so sad that we have been fighting all this time, and we could have been . . . friends. I don’t know that I feel . . . anything else.”

 _But what will you feel when you realize he is in love with you_ , wondered Dumbledore. After a pause, when Harry said nothing more, Dumbledore went on. “I think you should know that he came to me at the beginning of this school year, and told me that he intended to make a complete break with his father. That he wanted a chance this year to prove that he has changed, to earn my trust and a possible position here at Hogwarts after he graduates. It’s the only place he feels he will be safe if he goes against his father. That was why I agreed to make him a prefect this year, and why I asked him to make that promise to me.”

Harry sat up straight. “But that’s great! Draco could stay here and be a teacher – you said his grades are really good – ”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore gently. “I believe that Draco would be a very fine teacher, and I’m considering that quite seriously, but that’s not the point. We have no idea what Lucius Malfoy will do when Draco openly defies him. There could be terrible and dangerous consequences, for him, _and_ for you. I just want you to be careful, Harry – I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Harry stood up slowly. “I understand, sir. Thank you. But something is happening between us, and I . . . I can’t explain it . . . but . . .” Harry looked down. “I don’t think I want to stop it.”

“No,” said Dumbledore with a rueful smile, “of course, you don’t.” He sighed, then chuckled and winked. “Be off with you then. I’m sure your new friend is waiting for you.” Harry smiled, and Dumbledore waved him toward the door. “And Harry,” he said, as Harry was nearly out the door, “it’s good to see your smile again.”

Dumbledore watched Harry close the door and pulled at his beard thoughtfully. He looked up at a soft noise and then lifted his arm. Fawkes fluttered down from his unseen perch on the top of a bookcase to land on Dumbledore’s wrist. Dumbledore stroked the bright crimson and gold feathers on the phoenix’s breast. “Those two are quite a puzzle, aren’t they?” he said quietly.

They were the two most powerful young wizards he had ever seen, almost perfectly matched in ability. But because of their unrelenting opposition, he had begun to fear more and more that they would amount to nothing. That they would, in effect, cancel each other out in a rivalry that would mean the total waste of both of them, by using their power for nothing more than to destroy each other. But, now . . . what would this sudden alliance mean? And was there something else about this that Dumbledore should be seeing? He sensed something, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He scratched the soft place under Fawkes’ bill. “Hmm, quite a puzzle . . . ” He trailed off, thinking.

Fawkes sang a couple of liquid and tremulous flutelike notes.

“Yes, my friend,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully. “That might be possible, but it’s very rare. And if memory serves correctly, there’s never been this kind of pairing. Still . . . I intend to keep a close eye on them after this.” _Yes_ , he thought, _this would most definitely bear watching_.

* * * * * 

Draco was indeed waiting for Harry in the corridor outside the entrance to Dumbledore’s office. “Harry,” he said, pushing off from the wall where he had been leaning. “You didn’t get in more trouble, did you?”

“No,” said Harry. He came to stand close to Draco, and folded his arms loosely across his chest. “Nothing like that. Professor Dumbledore just worries about me sometimes – kind of like he feels responsible for me, since I don’t have my Dad or Mum to talk to.”

“Hmm,” said Draco, frowning slightly, studying Harry’s face. “I think I can guess what he was worried about.” He sighed, and looked down, then he reached out and tentatively touched Harry’s forearm with two fingers. “Thanks for what you did in there,” he said softly. “That was the most brilliant thing anyone’s ever done for me.” He let his hand drop away. Then he looked up and met Harry’s eyes again. “I . . . think you should listen to Dumbledore, Harry, so if you want out of this game, it’s okay. I’d understand.”

Looking in Draco’s eyes, Harry could see the sad disappointment in them, that told him how very much Draco wanted him to play. But Draco was offering Harry an out anyway. _A very honorable thing to do_ , thought Harry, surprised again at the changes he was seeing in Draco. He smiled. “Well,” he said, slowly, “since you brought it up, I did want to talk to you about that. I really can’t play chess in my head. So I was wondering if, maybe, you had a board we could use, and if you would mind if we went somewhere where we could have . . . some privacy? I didn’t much care for the . . . er, audience thing . . . that happened this morning.”

Draco looked at Harry as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “I have a set in my room,” he said hesitantly. “We could play there – I don’t have roommates.”

“You have a private room?” said Harry, amazed. “Where?”

“When you get to the stairs that go down to the Slytherin dungeons, look at the wall on the right and you’ll see an alcove with a small brass statue of a wyvern. Just walk into the alcove, it’s really an entrance into one of the small towers, and you’ll see the stairs. My room is at the top.” Draco was still looking stunned, strands of blond hair slipping down unnoticed over his forehead. “When can you come?” he asked softly.

“I’m supposed to have been at Quidditch practice already, so I have to go now, but I’ll come tonight after dinner, after I get my homework done . . . if that’s okay.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll get the board set up.”

They stood for a moment not knowing how to break away. Then Harry said, “I guess I’d better go.”

“You’re already really late,” said Draco.

“See you later?”

“Later.”

Harry finally turned and walked away. He stopped, and looked back before he turned the corner. Draco was still standing in the same spot. He looked astonished and . . . happy. _I think I like making him look like that_ , thought Harry. He smiled back at Draco and got a breathtaking answering smile in return. _Yes, I definitely do_.

* * * * * 

When Draco got back to his room, he pulled out his wand, and pointed it at the fireplace. _“Incendio,”_ he murmured. A cozy fire blazed up in the grate. He went immediately to his desk and opened one of the bottom drawers. Then he dug around in the pocket of his robe, and eventually fished out two small packets. One contained shredded boomslang skin, and the other forget-me-nots, that he had lifted from Snape’s desk that morning in Potions class. He hid them both in the drawer and closed it. Then he changed out of his school clothes and last, because he was saving the best for last, went and opened his window, and climbed up onto the deep window ledge. He sat curled up, with his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around his knees, his back against the wall and looked out.

When he had been given this room, and first seen the view from his window, he had been thrilled.

Though this room was at the top of one of the smallest towers at Hogwarts, it still had a stunning view, and it looked directly out over the Quidditch field. Draco had spent many hours this year watching the Gryffindor team practice for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with picking up strategic tips for the Slytherin team. He simply loved to watch Harry fly.

Draco looked out now and saw Harry walking out onto the pitch. Harry gave a thumbs up sign to someone in the stands, Weasley and Granger no doubt, and then he kicked off into the air. He flew straight up until he was far above the stands, then circled around and did a couple of high-speed laps, culminating in a spectacular dive. He pulled out above the ground with pinpoint precision at the last moment, then flew straight up in a spiral ascent, his body tightly aligned with his broomstick. Finally, he leveled out high above the pitch, waved to his teammates, and did a back somersault. Draco smiled. It was obvious from the way Harry was flying tonight that he was in high spirits, and Draco hoped he knew the reason why. It had been a while since Draco had seen him do moves like that – flying for the sheer joy of flight. It was great to see him fly that way again.

And while Draco had to admit that Harry was a better flyer than he was, they were very close in ability, and Draco knew that that wasn’t the real reason Harry had always been able to beat him at catching the Snitch. No, it was because Harry almost always spotted the Snitch first. The truth was, since fifth year, Draco had found watching Harry far more compelling than watching for that dratted, elusive, golden-over-grown-marble-with-wings. In fact, when they were in the air together, so close to each other as to be almost touching sometimes, with Harry looking so utterly stunning in his scarlet Quidditch robes, and making those amazingly flawless flying moves, it was impossible not to watch him. Sooner or later, Draco’s mind would wander, no matter how hard he tried to pay attention, and he would find himself staring entranced at Harry, oblivious to the game, lost in rapt contemplation of poetry on a broomstick.

It was something he had found profoundly embarrassing when it first started, when he still thought he wanted more than anything to beat Harry Potter. It was something he had kept as an absolute secret. Now he could laugh at himself. He knew what he really wanted now. He wanted to fly _with_ Harry, not against him. In fact, he thought as he sat watching out the window, he didn’t want to fly against Harry ever again. Not after today.

Draco made up his mind then and there to quit the Slytherin team. The Slytherins would have to find a new Seeker – they would have had to next year anyway. He fervently wished he could quit everything to do with Slytherin. He had been walking a fine line since the start of this school year, especially with Crabbe and Goyle, keeping his distance, yet not letting it show openly that he wanted nothing more to do with them.

He had finally managed to convince his two former bodyguards that hanging out with a prefect would ruin their bad-boy image. He’d driven his point home by taking house points and giving them both detention when they had set off a dungbomb under Pansy Parkinson’s bed. He had never let them know how fabulously funny he’d thought it had been to see Pansy standing outside her door, shrieking like a banshee in her baby-doll nightie, positively reeking of dung, or how hard he had laughed after he got back to his room. No, he’d been horribly stern with all of them, including Pansy.

What was important to him now was his schoolwork, getting the grades he needed to impress Professor Dumbledore, and seeing to his duties as prefect, because if he lost his place here at Hogwarts, the consequences were unthinkable. And then there was Harry. Harry was the most important thing of all.

He watched Harry execute a perfectly beautiful backwards loop and effortlessly pluck the practice Snitch out of the air on the down roll. God, he was incredible – and Draco wanted him in every way there was to want. He jumped down out of the window, even though the practice session would go on for a little longer. He had a room to straighten and a chess game to set up before dinner. And after that, homework to do.

Suddenly a shadow darkened the still open window and Draco turned back, slightly startled. His father’s eagle owl had just landed on the ledge, and was closing its enormous wings, as it stepped through the window. “Hello, Lucifer,” said Draco, his voice dripping with scorn. “How’s Daddy?” He took the message from the huge bird and opened it.

  


> _Draco,_
> 
> _It’s about time you came to your senses, and have finally done as I asked. We will  
>  discuss your plan when you come home for the holidays. I will expect a detailed  
>  progress report._
> 
> _L.M._

  


Draco went to his desk and pulled out parchment and his quill. He thought for several moments, then wrote:

  


> _Father,_
> 
> _My plan is proceeding even better than expected. Please send me the silver dragon  
>  ring from the carved wooden box on my bedroom dresser. I intend to give it to Potter  
>  as a Christmas gift – appropriately spelled, of course. I will see you next week._
> 
> _D.M._

  


Draco fastened his message to Lucifer’s leg, and sent the owl back. Hopefully, his father would get the ring to him right away. It was getting dark outside now, and the air coming in the open window was growing bitterly cold. Draco looked out one last time to see that the Gryffindors were coming in, but it was too dark to pick Harry out from the group. He smiled. Very soon, he would get to see Harry – not out there this time – but in here, in his own room. He reached out and pulled the window closed, then, still smiling to himself, went to look in his trunk for his chess set.


	6. Part II — The Game — Chapter 6

  


_Who’d ever guess it?_   
_This would be the situation –_   
_One more observation –_   
_How’d we ever get this far_   
_Before you showed me what you really are?_

Lyrics from “The American and Florence” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Even working as fast as he could, it was well after eight o’clock before Harry finished his homework, and was able to sneak out of the Gryffindor common room. Ron and Hermione were off somewhere having some private time together, and Dean, Neville, and Seamus were concentrating on a major project they had due next Monday for Advanced Herbology, so no one questioned Harry when he simply walked over to the portrait hole and stepped out. He had no intention of telling anyone where he was going anyway. If they missed him before he got back, well . . . he’d figure that out later.

He walked quickly through the halls and down the flights of stairs. He was both excited and nervous at the same time. _Oh come on, Potter,_ he said to himself, _admit it. You’re scared as hell_. He thought about what Professor Dumbledore had said that afternoon about Draco’s father. He had taken the warning seriously, because he knew that he was probably going to be forced to face Lucius Malfoy and other Death Eaters sooner or later – he knew he was their prime target. That thought sickened him, and he wanted more than anything not to have to face Voldemort and his followers again. He didn’t intend to, if that was at all possible. But Voldemort was a known danger. What was really making him nervous right now, what was far more immediate and unknown, was what Draco could do to him – and what that might mean.

Harry thought back to what Draco had done to him that afternoon while they were talking to Dumbledore. Even now, just thinking about it made his face flush. He had been trying to explain to the headmaster that they hadn’t been fighting, and suddenly he was aware that Draco was leaning against him. Then Draco’s fingertips had found his under the sleeve of his robe, and Draco had let his fingers travel, oh-so-softly, and oh-so-slowly, up the inside length of Harry’s fingers, up over his palm to his wrist, and back down again. Then he had slipped his fingers between Harry’s and held hands with him for the briefest moment. Thank goodness that paperweight had rolled off Dumbledore’s desk – at least, maybe Dumbledore hadn’t noticed what Draco was doing. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds, but Harry was nearly reduced to a quivering mass of incoherent jelly before Draco gave his hand a squeeze, and stepped away.

No one but Draco Malfoy had ever been able to elicit these intensely emotional reactions from him with just a look, or a word, and now a touch – or, oh God, a kiss. That had to mean something important, and nervous or not, he _did_ want to find out what.

Things had changed so fast between them, and so completely, that yesterday’s reality seemed like a lifetime ago, and so, on top of being nervous, Harry also felt confused and apprehensive. Did he really trust Draco now? How could he, in one day, erase six years of ill-treatment and distrust from his mind, and yet that’s exactly what he seemed to be doing. This still might turn out to be some kind of deceitful trick, but he’d seen very convincing evidence that Draco really had changed. Somehow Harry was very sure, he just knew in a way that he couldn’t explain, that it wasn’t a trick, that the change he was seeing in Draco was real. His heart was asking him to believe in Draco, to forgive him and trust him. But, should he? Thinking about it just led him back in circles to unanswered questions. With Draco was the only place he would be able to find the answers, and so he went.

Harry had no trouble finding the alcove that was the entrance to the tower stairs up to Draco’s room. Funny that he had never noticed it before – but a lot of Hogwarts castle’s architecture was like that – you never saw it unless you knew it was there. The stairs spiraled up with doors at every level. Harry counted five doors before he got to the one at the top. He wondered briefly who lived in all the other rooms, but every coherent thought drained out of his mind when he found himself facing Draco’s door. It was now or never – did he knock, or did he run screaming back to the safety of his cozy little Gryffindor cocoon? Well, weren’t Gryffindors supposed to be brave? Harry decided he didn’t like cocoons. He took a deep breath and knocked.

After a couple of seconds, Harry heard quiet footsteps, the door opened, and then he was looking into that breathtaking pair of light gray eyes that seemed to kindle when they saw him, that sent a matching spark leaping up inside him in response.

“Hey, Harry,” said Draco, softly. And he stepped aside to let Harry come in, then closed the door behind him. They looked at each other for a few seconds in a shy and awkward silence. Draco was wearing black jeans and a soft black knit sweater; he was barefooted. Somehow Draco always managed to make the simplest clothes look elegant, while Harry – Harry was still wearing his school shirt and vest with a pair of old jeans and his usual trainers – an outfit he had never felt self-conscious in, until this moment.

Draco glanced over at his desk and then back to Harry. “I have three more Arithmancy problems to do,” he said apologetically. “Do you mind if I finish?”

“No,” said Harry. “Of course I don’t mind.”

“Then come sit by the fire,” said Draco. “That’s where I have the chessboard set up. I have to keep the fire going most of the time in this room – it can get really cold.” He gave Harry a lingering glance, then walked over to his desk and sat down.

Harry looked around the room for the first time and was stunned. In front of the fireplace on his right, two big, overstuffed armchairs sat facing each other across a small table. Beyond them, against the far wall, was Draco’s desk, and in the corner next to that was a tall bookshelf full of books. The curtained double bed sat about mid-way down the room to his left, with its headboard also against the far wall, and Draco’s trunk at the foot. Between the desk and the bed was a huge arched deep-set window with leaded glass panes. On the far side of the bed was a night table, and against the far left wall was a large wardrobe. Harry could see that there was another door at the end of the room next to the wardrobe. Several lamps hung from the walls, adding circles of golden light to the flickering glow from the fireplace. “This is an amazing room,” he said, very impressed. “What’s the door over there for?”

“Bathroom,” said Draco absently, in the middle of a problem.

“You have your own _bathroom!_ ” Harry was astonished. He had never, in his entire life, had a bathroom to himself.

Draco turned, and looked up from his writing for a moment. “All the other seventh year Slytherins share rooms in this tower, but this is the only one with a bathroom. It’s meant to be a teacher’s room, really,” he said. “I was very lucky to get it.”

A teacher’s room. Harry smiled. Then Dumbledore meant for Draco to stay next year – had had enough faith in him at the beginning of this year, to give him his teacher’s room now. Just knowing that made Harry feel a little less uneasy, and he went to sit in the closest of the armchairs, the one that faced into the room, toward Draco’s desk. He watched Draco working for a few moments, then leaned over to examine the chessboard and pieces that were set up on the table between the two chairs.

It was an exquisite set. The pieces were carved of onyx and alabaster; the squares on the board were inlaid with a very dark wood and mother-of-pearl. Harry picked up one of the black Knights. It was an intricately carved, rearing dragon, its wings half-spread, its eyes tiny red gemstones that winked in the firelight. The Rook was a crenellated castle tower, with blooming rose vines entwining its circular walls; and the Pawns, each one kneeling gracefully on an open flower or leaf, were delicate fairies that seemed to sparkle from the inside the way real fairies do. Harry had almost never seen anything so lovely. Each piece was incredibly detailed and perfect. Harry carefully replaced the dragon, noticing that Draco had already placed the three moves they had made last night and this morning.

“Done,” said Draco just then, from his seat at his desk. He closed his book, rolled up his homework parchment, and came to sit in the chair opposite Harry. “What do you think?” he asked, nodding at the board. “It was my grandmother’s set. She taught me to play.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Harry, smiling. “I’m almost afraid to touch it. Is it wizard chess?”

“Oh, no,” said Draco, “definitely not. I hate wizard chess – too messy, no elegance. You have to move these pieces yourself.” He curled up into the chair, pulling his bare feet under him to one side.

Harry kicked off his worn trainers and pulled his feet up into his chair too, but sat cross-legged with his knees sticking out over the arms of the chair, his elbows on his knees, chin resting in his hands.

“And speaking of moving, it’s your turn, Harry,” said Draco, quietly.

Harry glanced at Draco. Draco was at risk, now. He looked nervous, his hands were twined together in his lap. Harry could do anything, ask anything. Harry looked down and studied the chessboard. He knew his next move on the board . . . but the question he wanted to ask was going to be far more embarrassing for himself than for Draco. Even so, it was what he wanted to know. He stared at the board as if contemplating his move, letting that be a camouflage for the fact that he was trying to think how to word this first question – the one that had plagued him all day. He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. Finally, he reached out and picked up the little dragon he had looked at earlier. “Knight to F6,” he said. He glanced at Draco, then down. “You asked me this morning how come I liked that kiss so much.” He looked back up and met Draco’s eyes. “What makes you think I did?”

The tension seemed to vanish from Draco’s face. He smiled softly at Harry, and relaxed back into his chair. “Because you’re here.”

Harry’s heart did a funny lurch at the sight of that smile. God, he was so unprepared to deal with the impact Draco’s smiles had on him. They were so new, so unexpected, so . . . mesmerizing. Harry shook his head, fought to keep his focus on what he needed to say. Draco’s response was embarrassingly perceptive, but not what he wanted to know. “I don’t mean now,” he said, after a moment. “I meant this morning – we hadn’t even talked, when you said that.”

Draco grinned at him. “I knew as soon as you walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, Harry. I figured you would probably react one of two ways – that you would like it and be going crazy trying to figure out why, in which case you wouldn’t tell anybody, or else you would be horribly repulsed and show up at breakfast with a horde of Gryffindor thugs and beat me to a pulp. Actually, that’s what I expected to happen,” he added. “But when you came in to breakfast looking like you hadn’t slept all night, so adorably pathetic and confused, I knew.”

Harry wasn’t at all sure he liked being so predictable and transparent – but Draco wasn’t making fun of him. In fact, had he just said Harry was ‘adorable’!? _Oh, hell_. Harry had hoped that he could keep how much he had been affected by that kiss to himself a bit longer. But that seemed futile in the face of Draco’s certainty. _Adorable!? I’m in deeper trouble than I thought here._

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “Maybe I did like it, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to do it again. Maybe I just want to be friends with you, Draco, now that you’ve let me know we can. Maybe I just want to put a stop to all the fighting.”

Draco looked down at his hands, letting his long silver-blond fringe fall forward to hide his eyes. He was silent for a long moment. Finally, in a very quiet voice, he said, “If that’s all you want, Harry . . . I can do that.” He tossed his hair back with a slight movement of his head, looked over at the chessboard, and then reached out and moved a white dragon. “Knight to C3.” He looked up at Harry. “What _do_ you want, Harry?”

Harry met Draco’s eyes, and a large ache blossomed in the pit of Harry’s stomach. A cool reserve was in Draco’s eyes now, the openness that had turned those gray eyes soft with warmth was gone, and Harry felt the loss of that warmth as a blow to the gut. “I don’t know,” he said faintly. But just then, facing that cool distance in Draco’s eyes, he did know. He looked down abruptly, breaking the eye contact, somewhat startled by his reaction, and felt heat flush to the tips of his ears. He knew what he wanted. More than anything, he wanted that warmth back, wanted to look back up into those light gray eyes and see them go warm for him. He wanted Draco to touch him in that tender, gentle way he had last night, wanted to hold Draco and bury his face in that silky blond hair. He wanted Draco to kiss him again. And knowing this left him feeling horribly shaken.

He had come here expecting to take things slowly, but this was not slow. He had completely underestimated the effect Draco would have on him – being here, alone with him in his room, knowing how Draco felt, and what Draco wanted – and what his own responses to that would be. This morning in Binns’ class, he had wondered why he wasn’t more shocked about Draco’s attraction to him. Probably, it was because the feelings he was thinking about then were Draco’s, but now that they were his own, he _was_ shocked. His sexuality was in shreds, and he couldn’t seem to adjust to his changing emotions quickly enough to be able to put any of what he was feeling into words. What could he say? It was happening too fast. All he could do was sit there feeling shocked at himself, and rotten for hurting Draco. “I’m sorry . . . ” was all he could manage.

Draco had drawn his knees up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs. He was watching Harry intently, as if trying to understand what Harry wasn’t saying. “Your move, again, then Harry,” he said at last, in a hurt tone, “if that’s all the answer you can give me.”

Harry could think of only one question – the one he desperately needed the answer to. His glasses had slipped down his nose a little, and he absently pushed them back up, then studied the chessboard, stalling again. The atmosphere between the two boys had become distinctly strained, and Harry was feeling rather unnerved by the tone of Draco’s voice. Finally, he said, “Pawn to B5,” and reached out and moved the piece with a slightly unsteady hand. “I’ve seen you at the dances and things with girls,” he said very quietly. He paused, took a deep breath to try to steady the slowly rising panic he felt, and forced himself to finish the question. “So, how did you know you were . . . gay?”

Draco shifted uneasily in his chair. He pushed back the hair that had fallen down over his eyes again. “I guess I must be,” he said hesitantly, “since it turned out that the person I want to be with is a guy. But I don’t feel attracted to any other guys . . . _or_ girls. Just that one person, who,” he added, barely audible, “has never been interested in me.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “So you came up with this elaborate chess scheme just to make me sleep with you?” he asked in amazement. As soon as the sentence was out of his mouth, though, Harry knew he’d said something very wrong.

Draco’s eyes flashed like silver lightening. He came uncoiled from his chair, and stood up faster than Harry would have believed possible. “I think you should go,” he said coldly. “Now.”

“Draco, no – ”

Draco stepped swiftly over to Harry, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of the chair. “Just get _out!_ ” He pulled Harry, who was much too surprised to resist, to the door, opened it, shoved Harry out, and slammed the door behind him. A few seconds later, the door opened and Harry’s shoes came hurtling out, one of which hit Harry squarely in the middle of his back.

“OW!” Harry turned around just as the door slammed shut for the second time. He found himself standing at the top of the spiral stairs, in the dark, freezing cold tower, facing the door that had just been slammed in his face. Numbly, he picked up his shoes. And faced the door again. _Damn and double bloody hell!! What just happened?_

He tried to calm down and think back. Draco had been resolutely honest and open with him, even when it so obviously hurt. And Harry had just sat there and allowed confusion to make him a coward, had hurt Draco even more with his silence. Then had made him angry on top of that, though he wasn’t entirely sure why Draco had reacted like he had. He thought back through what Draco had last said, and was mortified. _Oh God – he just told me that he’s never wanted anyone but me, and I totally missed that_. He groaned inside. _Now I’m the one acting like a git!_ Still, Harry didn’t think that was why Draco had thrown him out.

_But now what?_ he thought. He turned his head and looked down the long winding stairs, then back at that closed door. There was no way he was going back to his dormitory. He wanted back in that room with Draco. Everything he wanted right now was behind that door. He rubbed his hand through his hair and sighed. _I have to go back in there to talk to him, that’s what._

He took the step that put him up beside the door and laid his head against it. From just on the other side he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a muffled moan. Harry was horrified. “Draco!” he said, in as loud a voice as he dared. He knocked softly. “Draco, please let me back in!” He waited a moment listening. He knocked again. “I’m sorry!” He shivered slightly. _Damn, it’s freezing out here!_ “I don’t want to leave.”

The door rattled slightly as if someone who had been leaning against it had moved.

Harry tapped on the door again. “Draco? I want to talk to you, and I’m not going to go away. I’m going to stand outside your door all night if I have to.” He shivered again, then leaned his forehead against the door, and sighed pitifully. “Look, it’s _freezing_ out here. If you don’t let me in soon, there will be nothing left of me but an ugly block of frozen git!” He paused to listen again. He could almost sense Draco on the other side of the door. “Draco,” he said, and this time he made his voice as serious as he could, “I need to tell you something. That you’re wrong – what you said about me not being interested – it isn’t true.”

Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs behind him. “Well, well,” said a smug, sneering voice. “If it isn’t Harry Potter! How fascinating!”

Harry whirled around, to stand with his back pressed up against Draco’s door, clutching his shoes to his chest with one hand. He found himself face to face with Pansy Parkinson dressed in nothing but a filmy nightgown.

_Oh. Dear. God._

“So _this_ is what the Ice King has been holding out for all this time,” said Pansy, her voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. Then her eyes narrowed speculatively and she smiled at Harry in a mischievous, seductive way that made his skin crawl. She stepped closer to him and her voice turned to pure syrup. “Or did he throw _you_ out, too?” she asked softly, looking up at him through lowered lashes. She placed one hand on the doorframe by Harry’s shoulder. Her fingers started to tiptoe towards his collarbone.

Harry gulped, and edged away.

“You know, I wouldn’t throw you out if you ever came to visit _me_ ,” she purred. She leaned forward until her pouting lips were only inches from Harry’s.

Harry jerked back and his head banged sharply against the door. _DRACO!!_ he screamed silently. _Open this door NOW!!_

Suddenly, as if in answer, he felt empty air behind him where the door had been, and a hand grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled hard. Harry stumbled backwards into Draco’s room and was unceremoniously shoved to one side. He watched stunned as Draco leaned out the door, wand in hand and said, “ _Obliviate quintminutus_.” Then Draco quickly pulled his hand back in and held his wand behind his back.

“Pansy,” said Draco in a flat, annoyed tone, as if he’d just opened the door to her knock. “What are you doing here? You know I don’t like to be disturbed in the evenings when I’m studying.” He looked her up and down and frowned, disgusted. “For God’s sake, you’re not even properly dressed.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, Draco,” said Pansy in a very altered, subdued voice. “I’m not sure . . . I can’t remember why I came up here. Something about doors slamming . . . and voices . . . maybe.”

“Everything seems perfectly quiet to me,” said Draco firmly. “Go on back downstairs now, before you catch pneumonia or something. There’s a good girl. Go back to your room. Yes, that’s it – down the stairs. Good night.” He shut the door, and sighed heavily. He looked sideways at Harry. “You,” he said, flatly, “were almost in a lot of trouble.”

Harry slumped back against the wall next to the door, his eyes closed, glasses slightly askew, and bit his lower lip. He was freezing, had just been badly unnerved, and he wasn’t sure if Draco was still angry. Maybe he should leave after all. But then he felt warmth, not touching, but very close, and his glasses were gently straightened. His shoes were lifted out of his frozen grasp, and he heard them drop to the floor.

“You okay?” said a low voice near his face.

Harry opened his eyes, and Draco was standing so close to him that he startled slightly. There was still a look of angry wariness in Draco’s eyes, but Harry saw concern in them as well, and that was close enough to the warmth he was missing that he reconnected with his thoughts from outside in the tower, the resolve he had felt to come back in here and be honest. “No,” he said, in an aggrieved whisper, “I’m not. I’m half-frozen, I’m going to have nightmares about pug faces with lips for weeks, and I don’t understand why you threw me out in the first place.”

For a moment, Draco looked torn between laughing and being angry. His eyebrows went up and then down in a frown – anger won out. “I threw you out because what you said was really offensive – how could you think that this was just some scheme to make you sleep with me, or that I’d even _want_ you that way – ”

“Because that’s what you told me this morning!” said Harry, cutting him off. “That you intended to “take all” and lose your virginity at the end of this chess game.”

“That’s not what I said at all!” retorted Draco loudly. “God, Harry, how in bloody hell am I going to _make_ you sleep with me? Use the Imperius Curse? Even if it wasn’t illegal, I happen to know it doesn’t work very well on you. And I really can’t imagine that you would be such an idiot as to sleep with me if you didn’t want to, just because I won some dumb game and asked you to!” Draco was standing with his hands clenched by his sides, glaring at Harry. “But the worst thing is, you obviously think I’m the kind of sick jerk that _would_ ask you to do that!”

Harry had stopped looking at Draco, and was staring down at the floor, biting his lower lip again, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looked up only after there had been a long moment of silence, when it seemed that Draco was finished yelling at him. Draco had turned his face away from Harry and was also looking down at the floor. Harry found, to his surprise, that he wasn’t angry, that what he wanted most was to understand what Draco had meant. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, in a steady resolute tone, “if I misunderstood. But I don’t really know you at all, Draco. The person I used to know _was_ a jerk. This morning, when I said I didn’t believe you were a virgin, you said that you intended for that to change by the end of the game. And I can’t think of what else you might have meant by that.”

Draco moved only to cross his arms over his chest, but didn’t say anything. He seemed locked in an inner battle with his own anger and hurt feelings.

Watching him, Harry felt a very strong urge to reach out and touch him, to stop the hurt. The distance between them made him ache inside. He wanted to pull Draco against him, and hold him, so that there was no distance between them anymore. And this time that feeling didn’t shock him quite so much, it felt somehow . . . acceptable. Still, there was a large gulf between thinking it might be okay and actually doing it, so he waited, hoping Draco would say something. But finally, when the silence had stretched out for what felt like a very long time, he asked quite sadly, “Do you still want me to leave?”

Draco looked up quickly. “No!” he said, as if startled by the suggestion. He looked at Harry for a second then looked back down. “No, don’t go. I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t believe I just yelled at you like that.”

Harry took a deep breath of relief, and the tension in his gut relaxed a bit. “Forget it,” he said. Then he went on, in a gently teasing tone, “I can stand up to a lot worse than _that_ from you, Malfoy.” He saw a hint of a smile appear on Draco’s face. “So,” he said, trying to coax more of that captivating smile from Draco, “I take it then, that I was wrong when I thought you were planning to throw me to the floor, rip off my clothes, and have wild meaningless sex with me if you won this game?” He had hoped to make Draco laugh, and was completely surprised by Draco’s very different reaction.

“Oh hell, Harry,” said Draco softly, and he blushed to the roots of his hair. “That’s not what I meant at all,” he continued seriously. He took a deep breath. “Maybe because I was trying to tease you – goad you into playing, and I was embarrassed about the virginity thing, it came across like that. Obviously, you haven’t had a very high opinion of my morals since you thought I was sleeping with the entire Slytherin girl’s dorm, but they all call me . . . what Pansy said.” Draco paused, and then continued in an even softer voice. “The truth is, I’ve always had this stupid idea – that I wanted to wait until I loved someone, until someone loved me.”

At Draco’s words, a small inner knot of fear, that Harry had barely been conscious of, gently unraveled and slipped away. “That is _not_ stupid, Draco,” interrupted Harry quietly, deliberately using the words Draco had said to him last night – words that had meant a great deal to him. Draco’s gaze flickered up to his for a second, and Harry saw a flash of recognition in them, before Draco looked down again.

“The point is,” said Draco, continuing with a bit of a catch in his voice, “I know you don’t love me . . . God, I don’t know if you can ever even like me . . . but I wouldn’t want to sleep with you, unless you did. I was just hoping by the end of the game . . . if you got to know me . . . maybe you would . . . ”

He looked back up finally and met Harry’s eyes. “Last night wasn’t planned – I was supposed to be staying away from you. But then you had your arms around me, and I . . . I made up this chess game right then as an excuse to kiss you . . . because I wanted to so much, because I thought I’d never have the chance again. I never expected it to go beyond that, until you walked in to breakfast. All I really wanted to do with this game was to give us an excuse to talk . . . or whatever else . . . ” His voice trailed off and he sighed, and looked down unhappily at his feet. “I’ve already told you that you can stop playing if you want to.”

Harry had been completely surprised when Draco blushed. He had turned the most wonderful shade of rose-pink. Harry was almost too distracted by it to listen, but every word that Draco was saying was thundering through him, tearing his heart up. He marveled again at Draco’s ability to be unflinchingly honest about his feelings, and at the way his own feelings were changing from one minute to the next. He watched Draco’s face intently while he talked, and when Draco paused and looked up at him, the sincerity in those gray eyes made his throat ache, and when Draco looked back down, Harry again felt the wrenching loss of that gaze. So now, it was his turn to try to be unflinchingly honest.

“I want to keep playing,” said Harry. “It _is_ making us talk, and I want to do that. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have come tonight, or I would have walked away after you threw me out.” He took a deep breath. “I’m trying very hard to sort out how I feel about you, but what I’m mostly feeling right now is nervous and confused. And,” he added gently, “it isn’t fair for you to get hurt and angry because I don’t understand you yet, or when I don’t know how I feel. You’ve evidently had some time to think about this, but I’ve had less than a day.”

Draco looked up and smiled at him repentantly. “Being patient and fair have never been high on my list of personality traits, Harry,” he said. “Not everything about me has changed.”

But Harry knew he was teasing, and he wasn’t at all immune to the tender smile that Draco was giving him, or that soft look in his eyes either. “It’s your move,” said Harry, trying to ignore the fluttery sensations of half panic, half thrill that were stirring inside him when Draco looked at him that way.

Draco eyes held Harry’s for another brief spellbinding moment, then he walked to the table, set his wand down, and stood studying the chessboard.

Harry followed him, and sat down in the chair he had been sitting in earlier, feeling thankful to be back by the warmth of the fire again, but also feeling a bit tense from the suspenseful anticipation of what Draco would do with his next move.

Draco contemplated the board for a little while longer, before moving his piece. “Pawn to G4,” he said, as he glanced over at Harry. Then he curled back up in his chair and faced Harry squarely, with a steady reassuring gaze. “Tell me how you do feel about me, Harry. You don’t have to have figured out what it means. Just tell me what is going on.”

Harry sighed and flopped back against the back cushion of the chair and closed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll try. But the reason I said I didn’t know earlier is because things keep changing. Every time you talk to me, or look at me . . . or touch me,” he added softly, “my feelings about you, about how I look at things between us, change.” He opened his eyes and stared into the fire for a minute, then over at Draco. Draco wasn’t looking at him, but Harry knew he was listening intently. “I feel confused – by knowing that just yesterday I thought I hated you, but today I don’t.” Harry paused, and ran a hand through his tousled hair, thinking. “No, I don’t mean that . . . I don’t just _not_ hate you now. The person that you’ve been last night and today is someone . . . I think I could like a lot – that I think I might want to be close to – maybe very close to.”

Draco looked up at that and met Harry’s eyes. That wonderful warmth was back, making Draco’s eyes shine like silver moonlight through soft gray mist.

A little thrill tremor ran through Harry. _God, he has the most unbelievably beautiful eyes_. Harry felt he could easily get lost in those eyes. He looked down, feeling slightly flushed. After a moment he continued. “I said maybe I want us to be just friends because I feel like this is happening too fast – that you’re pushing me into something I don’t want – but another part of me does want it. You’ve made me feel things I’ve never felt before – in fact, I haven’t been able to think of anything else all day. But then I’m confused because . . . I’m sure I’m straight . . . or I was sure . . . and now – ” He stopped abruptly, and then, after a moment’s pause, slowly stood up, his eyes downcast. “Oh hell, Draco,” he said softly, “when you kissed me last night, that was the best kiss of my life, and I’ve been kissed a lot.” He reached out and moved a black dragon. “Knight to C6.” He looked up at Draco. “Why haven’t you tried to kiss me again?”

Draco grinned at him, and raised one eyebrow. “Two very simple reasons, Harry. First, I didn’t think you wanted me to, and second, it’s your turn. I’m not going to kiss you again, unless you kiss me back first.” He stood up too, looked down at the board, and moved his King Pawn one space. “Pawn to E3. So, why haven’t you kissed me back?” he challenged.

Harry stared down at the chessboard. Quite a few reasons went quickly through his mind, including Dumbledore’s warning, the question of his sexuality, and the ever troublesome, _what will Ron say?_ But he couldn’t tell himself anymore that he didn’t want to – he did. Nothing he could think of was able to stand up to the strength of the desire he was feeling right now to hold Draco and kiss him again. Nothing else mattered but this moment and this person.

What Draco had said earlier suddenly flashed back into his mind – _“It turned out that the person I want to be with is a guy. I don’t feel attracted to any other guys, or girls. Just that one person.”_ Was it possible that you could find a person, could love that person, and it didn’t matter if they were male or female, but they were just the one you needed and wanted, the one that fit so perfectly – and that was what made it right? Could it be that simple? Draco evidently felt that way about him. And maybe Draco was that person for Harry, too, because oh God, touching Draco had felt so right – 

“Harry?” said Draco, quietly, hesitantly. “Are you going to answer my question?”

Harry looked up at Draco, and slowly smiled. “No,” he said. “Except to say I think we’ve talked enough.” He paused for a brief moment. “Knight to G4.” He moved his dragon and captured Draco’s Pawn. He picked up the small white fairy and stared at it for a moment as it lay in the palm of his hand, then set it down to the side of the board. He took off his glasses, folded them and set them carefully on the table, then stepped out around the table and looked at Draco.

Draco looked up from the chessboard and met Harry’s eyes, blond hair spilling down over his forehead, one side of his lower lip caught behind his teeth, his eyes showing surprise and a sudden shy hope.

Draco couldn’t have looked more desirable if he had tried. Harry was entranced. Maybe it really could be this simple. All of his inner conflicts faded away. “Come here,” he said softly.


	7. Part II — The Game — Chapter 7

  


_I have to hand it to you_  
 _For you’ve managed to make me forget why I ever agreed to this farce_

_I don’t know why I can't think of anything_   
_I would rather do_   
_Then be wasting my time . . . with you_

Lyrics from “Mountain Duet” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

There was a frozen moment in time, when Harry’s softly spoken words, _“Come here,”_ hung in the air between them, echoing over and over in silence. Then Draco stepped around the table, and came to him, one hand trailing along the edge of the table, as if he needed something solid to cling to for a moment. He came to stand face to face with Harry, very close, his left hand still resting on the edge of the table, firelight turning his flaxen hair to a molten red-gold.

Harry suddenly felt no more compelling need than to just gaze at Draco, up close, to let his eyes rest on the perfect curve of that inviting upper lip, or on the pale cheeks that were flushed just now with firelight and maybe something else, or on the fair delicately arched eyebrows or the thick dusky-blond lashes that framed those exquisite eyes. Harry saw that Draco was studying his face too, and he gave one brief distracted thought to whether Draco could possibly find him as attractive as he was finding Draco, because he was coming just now to the startling realization that Draco Malfoy was very beautiful to look at. Not in a feminine sense, but in the sense that Harry felt he could stare at the perfect features and soft-hued colors of Draco’s face all night long.

Then Harry’s eyes traveled up to the pale, fire-burnished blond fringe falling over Draco’s forehead, and his longing-to-look turned into wanting-to-touch. And so he did. With the fingertips of one hand and a feather-light touch, Harry reached up and brushed those soft strands back, then let his fingers trail down the side of Draco’s face, behind his ear and into the silky waves of hair that fell down the back of his neck.

At this first touch, Draco eyes closed and he drew in a short sharp shivery breath.

Harry stroked Draco’s hair down the back of his neck, then he raised his hand again and let his fingers trail down the side of Draco’s face from temple to jaw line.

Draco turned his face slightly into Harry’s hand so that his cheek brushed Harry’s palm.

The tenderness of this small gesture almost undid Harry. Touching Draco only with that one light caress of fingers to cheek, Harry leaned forward to kiss him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, so close that he could feel Draco’s breath on his face, and then their lips met, and he was kissing Draco, oh, so softly, and everything melted. Time, the room, and all thought swirled away in a dizzy flood of trembling sensation.

Draco never moved his hands, letting this be Harry’s kiss, making no demands of his own, surrendering control of whatever happened entirely to Harry for this moment, giving him everything.

Harry moved his hand back behind Draco’s head, fingers sliding into that wonderfully silky hair, and he slipped his other arm around Draco’s waist, slowly drawing their bodies together, as he deepened the kiss. Draco’s warm mouth opened for him, and Harry felt a tremor run through Draco as their bodies came together. An answering shiver went through Harry, and he felt in that timeless second, as if some missing part of him had just slid quietly and perfectly into place. He dropped his hand from the back of Draco’s head, wrapped that arm around Draco’s back and pulled him tighter against himself. Draco moved then, and Harry felt firm arms encircle his neck, gentle hands and fingers caress the back of his neck, tangle in his hair.

_Oh_ . . . 

Draco was responding to him with a trusting abandon and willingness that was quite new to Harry’s experience, and that told Harry far more about how much this meant to him than anything Draco had said. _He really wants this – wants me. Oh God, this is serious for him – no_ , he thought, _this is serious for us_ , and Harry acknowledged the commitment he was making with this kiss. For he knew with certainty in that moment that he never wanted to hurt Draco again, not ever again.

Harry pulled back a little, gently breaking the kiss, softening the parting with a second small kiss. “Draco,” he whispered.

Draco opened his eyes and met Harry’s intense gaze with complete openness. His eyes were misty, dreamy gray velvet, and Harry got lost in them. Their eyes locked, emerald and gray, and the walls crumbled, the fences fell, all the boundaries came down, until there was nothing left between them but wide unexplored spaces, endless vistas of sparkling green fields meeting velvety gray skies, melting together somewhere on some distant horizon as smoothly and seamlessly as two streams of water flowing into one.

Harry was profoundly moved. He closed his eyes and kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth, kissed his cheek, and the sweet place just under his ear. Then he buried his face in Draco’s soft hair and tried to keep standing. He was breathing fast and his heart was pounding. He could feel Draco’s heartbeat pounding in counterpoint to his own, could hear Draco’s quickened breath that so mirrored his own, in his ear.

The arms that were around his neck tightened, and a whisper in his ear said, “Knight to B5,” and then slow and impossibly tender kisses were trailing down his neck, into his collar and onto his throat, then up over his jaw, until those lips closed over his again, and Harry found out how it felt to be kissed by someone who wanted him deeply, and without reservation. It was revelation, explanation, and deliriously intoxicating. Harry felt his knees go weak.

But then abruptly, Draco broke off the kiss and pulled back.

Harry’s eyes flew open and he met Draco’s eyes with surprise and concern, feeling bereft, and then astonished at how much he didn’t want that kiss to end, wondering why Draco had pulled away so suddenly.

Draco looked back at Harry with deep affection in his eyes and a mischievous half-smile on his lips. “I’m just checking – ” he said, in a low, teasing, out-of-breath voice. “You don’t still want to be . . . just friends . . . do you, Harry?”

Harry exhaled the breath he’d been unconsciously holding with a laugh. “Oh God, you,” he said, shaking his head, still a bit breathless too, in the after effects of that kiss. He tightened his arms around Draco, and grinned. “No,” he said softly, his face coloring slightly. “I don’t.” Draco’s answering smile caused Harry’s heart to turn over. He leaned his head in and quickly kissed the adorably curved corner of that smile. Then he turned his head and looked at the chessboard, and laughed again. “You didn’t even move your piece on the board.”

Draco tilted his head and smirked at Harry cutely. “I was busy,” he teased. He reluctantly let go of Harry with one arm, and turned to look at the chessboard. “Hmm,” he said smugly, turning back to Harry with one eyebrow raised, “seems I took your Pawn.”

“I took yours first,” countered Harry with a grin.

Draco laughed and moved his dragon. He took Harry’s Pawn off the board.

Then Harry moved. “Pawn to E6.” He pulled away from Draco, took hold of his wrist, stepped back, sat down in his chair and pulled Draco down into his lap. He looked up into those lovely gray eyes. “Kiss me like that again,” he said, putting his arms around Draco. “And this time,” he added softly, as Draco curled up against him, and met his eyes with a steady tender gaze, “don’t stop.”

Draco put one arm around Harry’s shoulders, then lowered his eyes, and began unbuttoning the collar of Harry’s shirt with his other hand. He gently pulled Harry’s collar open, buried his face in the warm hollow of Harry’s neck and kissed him there. Then he raised his head slowly, trailing lingering feathery kisses up Harry’s neck to his ear. “Like this?” he whispered in Harry’s ear.

Harry moaned very softly; his eyes fluttered closed. He felt Draco’s tongue flicker over his ear lobe and he shivered. _God_. “Yes,” he breathed. He wrapped his arms tighter around Draco and pulled him closer.

But then Draco lifted his head to look at Harry, this time quite soberly. “Harry?” He waited until Harry opened his eyes and looked back at him. He held Harry’s eyes in an intent, searching gaze for a moment, before he spoke again. “You know, this isn’t a game to me at all.”

“I know,” said Harry quietly, seriously, returning Draco’s searching look with complete sincerity. “And the only game I’m playing with you is chess.” He laid his hand against Draco’s face and ran his thumb lightly over Draco’s cheekbone. “This is the most real thing I’ve ever felt.” Harry saw something kindle deep in Draco’s eyes for a second, just before they closed, and Draco’s mouth came down on his with a trembling intensity that sent waves of shivery tremors through Harry, and blotted out all thought.

Nothing was said for a long time after that except what was said with warm kisses and sighs, soft moans and tender heart-stopping touches. But at last Draco laid his head on Harry’s shoulder, with his face against Harry’s neck, and they just held each other, Harry with one arm around Draco, stroking Draco’s hair with his other hand, and that alone was so much.

Harry sat with his eyes closed, holding Draco, soaking in the warmth and comfort he felt. The fire had burned low, but crackled pleasantly; he could feel Draco’s breath on his neck, and the gentle idle caresses of Draco’s hands. He felt he could have stayed like this and never moved again, but awareness of the time finally surfaced in his thoughts, and he stirred and sighed. “I’ll have to go soon,” he whispered.

“I know,” said Draco. Neither of them moved.

Then after a bit, Harry bent his head and kissed the top of Draco’s nose. “I should probably go now,” he said.

Draco slowly uncurled and sat up. He looked dreamy, half-asleep, his hair was adorably disarrayed. “What are you going to tell your roommates?” he asked, suddenly looking uneasy.

“As little as possible,” said Harry. “At least for now. What do you want me to say?”

Draco looked down, thinking. “I don’t expect you to keep secrets from your friends, Harry,” he said, after a moment. “But I think the fewer people who know about this, the better.”

“I agree,” said Harry. “And . . . well, this is really new for me . . . and we both know it’s going to cause a huge stir. I don’t want to deal with a lot of outside pressure yet. So, I won’t even tell my friends until we both agree it’s okay.”

Then Harry looked suddenly alarmed. “But what about Pansy? Is she going to remember anything? And what did you do to her, anyway?”

“Memory charm,” said Draco. “Erased the last five minutes of her memory – so no, she shouldn’t remember anything about seeing you here.” Then Draco started laughing. “It was a good thing I was still mad at you when I hauled you back in here, otherwise I might have had a seizure from laughing so hard. The look on your face . . . ”

“Hey,” said Harry. “It wasn’t funny. I thought she was going to eat me alive.”

“Oh, she would have,” said Draco. “That girl’s no pansy – she’s a bloody Venus Man-Trap. At least she didn’t ambush you and drag you into one of the broom closets.”

Harry choked. “She did that to you? Oh my God.”

“Yes, she did. End of fifth year – it was horrible – actually that may have been a defining moment in my life – the reason I jumped the fence, so to speak.” Then Draco laughed again at Harry’s appalled expression. “She never really laid a hand on me, though,” he said. “When I realized what she intended, I punched her in the nose and ran like hell.”

“You didn’t,” said Harry. Then he started to laugh. “Yes, I guess you would.”

“She’s mostly left me alone since then, except for that bloody nickname.” Draco grinned and shrugged, then stood up, stretching. “I figured it was either her nose, which was no great beauty to start with, or I’d have to jump out of one of the towers later, and that would have been _such_ a waste, and _so_ much messier.” He held out a hand to Harry.

Harry laughed and took Draco’s hand, and let Draco pull him up from the chair.

“You know I don’t want you to go,” said Draco softly, keeping hold of Harry’s hand. His eyes were the deep soft gray of summer rain clouds, full of hope and longing.

Harry felt the heat rush to his face. “I . . . really do have to get back . . . It’s late . . . and my roommates . . . ” he stammered, suddenly at a loss for words.

“I know,” said Draco with a wistful smile. He released Harry’s hand with a gentle squeeze.

Harry retrieved his glasses from the table, then went to find his shoes. Draco stood by the door while he put them on. Then Harry put his arms around Draco and kissed him again, one long lingering kiss, followed by a small tender one. “Will you let me come back tomorrow night?” he asked shyly, gazing into those captivating gray eyes.

“Harry,” said Draco, his voice warm and teasing, “if you _don’t_ come back tomorrow night, I’ll tell Pansy you like her.”

Harry shuddered, and then grinned. “If you do, you’ll just have to explain the nasty mess under the astronomy tower the next day.”

Draco laughed, and reluctantly pulled out of Harry’s arms. He opened the door. “Be careful going back.”

“I will,” said Harry. “Don’t worry. I’ve been outrunning Filch for six years.” He paused, then reached up and gently trailed his fingertips down the side of Draco’s face. Their eyes met, green and gray. “Thanks . . .” said Harry, very softly, “. . . for coming to talk to me last night.” Then he went out the door, and as he started down the stairs, he heard a whispered “Good night,” and the click of the door closing quietly behind him.

* * * * * 

Draco closed the door behind Harry, then leaned back against it with his eyes closed, exactly the way he had earlier, after he had thrown Harry’s shoes out and slammed the door. But the feeling then had been quite different. Then, with the slamming of the door, Draco’s surge of anger was overlaid almost instantly with regret – with the feeling that he had just made a huge mistake. Had he really just thrown Harry out – after wanting him to be here so much – how could he have done something so _stupid_?

Harry was probably all the way down the tower by now. Was it too late to go after him? Would Harry even consider coming back? Draco had put his hands over his face and moaned. Even if he was angry, he wanted Harry back. Then, incredibly, Harry had called his name through the door. He hadn’t gone at all. Draco had been too stunned to respond at first. After a moment, he had pushed away from the door and turned to face it, completely transfixed by surprise, as he listened to Harry asking to be let back in. Then Harry had said, _“I need to tell you something. That you’re wrong – what you said about me not being interested – it isn’t true,”_ and Draco had reached for the door handle. But before he could open the door, he had heard Pansy’s voice, and had frozen for a half-second in alarm. Then he had run to find his wand.

And he _had_ got Harry back. But then, oh damn his temper, he’d almost screwed everything up again. He’d been mortified that he’d yelled at Harry. But Harry had been wonderful, had teased him, and let him explain. And had stayed. Had been everything Draco had longed for.

Now, leaning back against his door, Draco suddenly noticed that the deep ache of longing that had been with him for months was gone, lingering only faintly now as a sweet reminder of Harry’s absence, and how much Draco wanted to be with him again. In its place was a feeling that he’d never, ever felt before. It was the most wonderful, swirly kind of mixture of cozy warmth inside his heart, and a light-headed dizzy feeling – it was probably happiness, or contentment, or something equally clichéd – so he really didn’t want to put a name to it – he just wanted to enjoy feeling it.

He pushed away from the door and walked past his bed to his wardrobe. He opened the drawer at the bottom and pulled out a brown packing box, which he carried back to the fireplace. He knelt in front of the fire, set the box down, and then stared for a moment into the flickering flames while a flood of memories and sensations rushed over him. Draco could still feel Harry’s light touches, hear his voice, his words, could still taste the velvety soft inside of his mouth. More than anything, Draco wanted to lose himself in this rush of feeling, wanted to relive the memory of the perfect way he and Harry had felt together.

But, he was tired, had not slept much at all the night before, and it was late. And there was something important he had to do tonight before he could go to bed. He forced himself to concentrate – he would have to save thinking about Harry for later. Draco opened the packing box and pulled out another box that was labeled _Portable Potions Kit_. He had gotten it by owl order a few weeks ago, mostly for curiosity’s sake, but it was perfect for what he wanted to do now.

He opened the kit and unpacked a small pewter cauldron, size 0.67, a length of chain with a hook at both ends, a pair of tongs, some cutting and stirring implements, a sieve, and a funnel, all appropriately small, plus several sizes of bottles and jars with lids, and another box which was labeled _50 Standard Potion Ingredients_. This last box contained tiny individual packets and vials of everything from aardvark bile to powdered zombie toes. Draco smiled to himself, quite pleased by the set, and found he was no longer sleepy. Between this kit, his own class supplies, and what he had stolen from Snape’s desk that morning, he should have everything he needed.

He jumped up and went to his desk to get his notes from that morning’s class, his Potions class supplies, and to retrieve the stolen ingredients from the drawer where he had hidden them. He carried them all back to the fireplace, and dropped down with artless grace to sit cross-legged on the floor. He unrolled his parchment and reread it. He had taken very careful notes this morning from Snape’s lecture on the advanced variation of the Hex Repellant Potion. It might be a little tricky, because it had to be done in two steps, but he thought he could use one of the bottles from his new kit to make the infusion of forget-me-nots.

He sorted through all the ingredient packets, pulling out what he needed and packing the rest away. He used the chain to hang the little cauldron by its handle from the flue in his fireplace, so that it dropped down over the fire, and then began mixing the ingredients. He had to go fill one of the small bottles with water from the bathroom tap, then he set that at the edge of the fire to boil. When it did, he put in the forget-me-nots, waited the proper length of time for it to steep, then promptly stirred in the pinch of shredded boomslang skin. He stirred it again, and added this mixture to the ingredients simmering in the cauldron. There was a poof of white smoke and the liquid in the cauldron turned a clear blue. Draco stared at it closely, hoping it was supposed to do that. Snape hadn’t mentioned any color changes.

He found the tongs, clamped them under the curved lip of the cauldron, and lifted it off the hook. Then he strained the contents into one of the jars and screwed on the lid. He held the jar up and inspected the blue liquid with a critical eye. This absolutely had to be right – there could be no mistakes.

He set the jar down, sighed, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. Then, he yawned. He was very tired now, the lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to him, and being so close to the fire had made him hot and sticky. He got up and started clearing everything away. He washed out his little cauldron in the bathroom sink, then packed the kit back into its box and put it away in his wardrobe drawer, leaving no trace whatsoever of what he had done. He hid the jar of blue liquid in his medicine cabinet. Now, if his father would send the ring soon . . . 

He took a very quick shower, and finally, dropped gratefully into bed. Only then did he let himself think of Harry again.

This night would be etched in his memory forever. Especially that moment when Harry had taken off his glasses and stepped around the table. Harry had smiled at him in a way that made him feel suddenly breathless with surprise and hope, and Draco had known then that Harry was going to kiss him. Harry had said, _“Come here,”_ in that soft way, and the room, or maybe the whole world, had shifted crazily under his feet so that he felt he had to hold on to the edge of the table to keep from falling.

Draco had gone to him, and found he had to hold on tighter to the edge of the table. He had never seen Harry with his glasses off. Harry in glasses was cute, attractive, often adorably so. Even the glasses themselves had attained cute status in Draco’s mind, as had Harry’s invariably messy hair, simply because they were part of Harry. But without glasses, Harry was – well, flat-out stunning. His eyes were an unbelievably pure green, sparkling like bright colored glass, or gemstones, not hard, but warm and brilliant, reflecting light into everything they touched. And those long black lashes. Draco’s heart had skipped several beats. Harry had touched him so gently, and kissed him so sweetly, and all Draco had wanted in that trembling moment was to give Harry everything.

Then Harry had said his name in that awed whisper, and he had opened his eyes to look into Harry’s eyes, and been lost in the expression in those emerald eyes – it was the achingly moving reality of what he had always dreamed of seeing in those eyes. He had been lost, willingly and gladly, in some timeless place where it was impossible to tell where one of them stopped and the other started, lost in the depths of those brilliantly warm green eyes, his heart given over without question.

But the moment that had caused the total meltdown in Draco’s heart was when Harry had pulled him down into his lap, and had held him so close, and had said, _“This is the most real thing I’ve ever felt.”_ Draco hadn’t believed that anything could ever touch him as deeply or as eloquently as that one sentence had. And it had been Harry who had asked if they could see each other again. That meant so much. It meant that Harry wanted _him_. It was so unexpected.

No, tonight had not been what Draco had expected at all. It had been more than he had ever let himself dare hope for, but most certainly not what he had expected. He had expected accusations about past wrongs, questions about his father and Death Eaters, and how much Dark Magic he knew, things he had steeled himself to answer as honestly as possible. But Harry had acted like none of that mattered. Instead, Harry had turned him inside out with his soft tentative touches, sweet words and kisses, and filled him up with the most incredible new feelings.

Draco turned over on his side, and exhaled a ragged heart-torn breath. No, this was not what he had expected at all. A Harry who reciprocated his feelings had not been part of his plan – it had been too inconceivable – it was the one thing he had not considered. And now . . .

He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. He felt a depth of regret that he had never known before. Because even with these incredibly wonderful new feelings he was experiencing, still, at the very center of it all, lived the terrifying knowledge of what he had planned for his father. And that meant he had very little time left to be with Harry, to love him. More than anything, Draco wanted Harry to know that he loved him, before the inevitable ending came.

His mind shied away from this – from the knowledge of what he knew his father would do. He had known from the first the terrible price that would have to be paid. No, he couldn’t think about that. It was not possible to stop what was going to happen. _It was the only choice I had_ , he thought. _But before I give him up, I want to hold him, touch him . . . love him. I just want him to know how much I love him. I just want him to love me back_. Draco’s thoughts turned over and over in his mind, and it was a long time before he finally fell asleep. _I just need him to love me back . . ._

* * * * * 

Harry literally ran all the way back to the Gryffindor common room. He felt excited and wound up with emotions, and running felt good. By the time he got to the portrait hole, he was completely out of breath, and had to lean against the wall panting, before he could say the password. The Fat Lady had her hair up in curlers and was eyeing him with sleepy annoyance. He realized this was the second night in a row he had had to wake her up to get in the tower. He put on his best apologetic smile, and whispered, “Tapioca pudding.”

As he stepped through the portrait hole, he smiled and shook his head. They had decided to let Neville think of the passwords this year, because he always had so much trouble remembering them. This one was actually the most complicated one they’d had so far, because Neville’s passwords had turned out to be a list of his favorite desserts, and the early ones had simply been things like “Cake” and “Pie” and “Cookie.” “Ice cream” had been his first venture into a two-word password. Harry grinned as he bolted up the stairs to his dorm room two at a time. They had all teased Neville, but no one really minded.

He opened the door to his room as quietly as possible, and peeked in. It was dark, everyone was in bed, hopefully asleep. Harry took a moment to slow his breathing, then slipped through the door. He tiptoed toward his bed. He heard all four of his roommates sit up in bed simultaneously. Then Dean lit his lamp, and the sudden light caught Harry in the center of the room, only half-way to his bed. Harry looked around at his four friends and sighed. “Sorry, guys,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wake everybody up.” He walked the rest of the way across the room and sat down on his bed.

“You didn’t wake us up, Harry,” said Dean.

“No,” added Seamus, “we were waiting up for you.”

“Harry, are you all right?” asked Ron. “You’ve been acting so strange today, and then no one could find you all evening.”

“Yeah,” said Neville. “We were really getting worried, Harry. We thought maybe You-Know-Who had kidnapped you.”

“We did _not_ think that,” said Dean, with a laugh.

“Well, I did,” said Neville, in a small voice.

“Ha!” Seamus broke in with a low snicker. “He’s been off kissing somebody, that’s where he’s been.”

There was a second of startled silence. “Oh, go on, Seamus,” said Ron, rising to Harry’s defense. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Well, just look at him,” said Seamus, grinning. “I know that look – he’s all rumpled, and pink around the mouth, and his shirt’s untucked. In fact, I think his shirt’s unbuttoned all the way down, and there – look, there’s the proof – ” Seamus chuckled as Harry blushed bright red. “Harry, you look like a bloody rose . . . with a sunburn!”

And it was true. Though he was still wearing his vest, which covered his shirt, when Harry looked down, he saw that he was obviously unbuttoned from collar to shirttail. When had that happened? God, Draco had had those gentle, agile hands all over him, and Harry had been far too lost in the sea of sensations Draco was rousing in him, to have sorted out any details. He had never even noticed his shirt being unbuttoned.

“Harry? _Are_ you seeing someone?” asked Ron with concern. “Is that what’s been going on today?”

Harry ran one hand through his hair, which made part of it stick up. “I’ve been playing chess with someone in another house,” he said, trying to think of an explanation without lying. “It just got late – ”

Seamus snorted. “It must have been Spin-the-Bottle-Chess then, Harry. Those marks on your neck weren’t made by any chessmen I’ve ever seen.”

Harry groaned. He didn’t feel at all like being teased about this. This was serious. It might have happened in one day, but six years of suppressed emotion and intense interaction had led up to this day, and now all his hurt, his longing for someone, his loneliness, all of it had been swept away by Draco’s gentle loving. He just wanted to lie in bed, in the dark, and drown in the memories of what had happened tonight. In peace.

“Who is it, Harry?” asked Neville.

“What house are they in?” asked Dean.

“Is it somebody we know?” asked Neville.

“Oh, Saints preserve us,” said Seamus, with a conspiratorial grin to Dean and Neville. “Now we’re going to have to put up with _two_ of them going on about their girlfriends and getting all serious on us.”

“Oh, shut up, Seamus,” snapped Ron. “I do _not_ ‘go on’ about Hermione.”

“You do so,” retorted Seamus. “Just the other day, you – ”

“Stop it!” yelled Harry. He looked around at his stunned roommates. “Yes, I _am_ seeing someone! And it _is_ serious! Very serious,” he said more quietly. “I just don’t want to talk about it yet, okay?”

A subdued chorus of “Sorry,” and “Sorry, Harry,” came from several points around the room.

Then Seamus spoke up, meekly. “ _Was_ there kissing, Harry?”

“Oh, geez, Seamus,” said Harry. Then he sighed. “Okay. Yes. Quite a lot, if you must know.” And then he had to bite his lip to keep from grinning at the memories this conjured and he blushed again.

“I knew it,” crowed Seamus. “I can spot post-kissy-face a mile away. Won’t you give us a hint, Harry? Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Okay, that’s enough, Seamus,” said Ron. “Leave him alone. He’ll tell us who it is when he’s ready.”

Harry looked gratefully over at Ron.

Ron was looking back at him with a very puzzled expression. “Right, Harry?”

“Of course I will,” said Harry sincerely. “You guys are my best friends. I promise you’ll be the first to know – ” _Just as soon as I’m sure myself_ , he added silently. “But right now, it’s late and I’d like to get some sleep.” He started getting undressed for bed, and Dean put out his lamp. A soft chorus of “Good night,” ran around the dark room, punctuated at the end by a barely audible smooching noise coming from the direction of Seamus’s bed, and a loud “Shhhh!” from Ron’s.

Harry climbed into bed, feeling a little guilty, and also a little amused. They had all assumed he’d been with a girl – and for now he had no intention of correcting that assumption – it would throw them off for a little while, until he and Draco were ready to tell them the truth.

Oh, Draco was such a delicious secret! And being with him tonight had been so incredible. He never would have imagined that they could talk and laugh together as they had last night and tonight. Or that Draco Malfoy could be so gentle, or so tender, and would draw such deep, equally tender responses from him.

A great sense of comfort pooled up in Harry’s heart, and he had the most wonderful shivery happy feeling inside him. He lay awake for a little while, smiling in the dark, letting the memories and the feelings wash over him, and when he fell asleep, he slept better than he had in a long time. Because for the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to tomorrow.


	8. Part II — The Game — Chapter 8

  


_Did I know where he’d lead me to?_   
_Did I plan_   
_Doing all of this for the love of a man?_   
_Well I let it happen anyhow_   
_And what I’m feeling now_   
_Has no easy explanation_   
_Reason plays no part_   
_Heaven help my heart_

Lyrics from “Heaven Help My Heart” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

The next morning at breakfast, Harry and Draco exchanged several subtle glances and secret smiles from across the Great Hall. But Harry quickly realized that he was going to have to be very careful where he looked, and for how long, because Seamus had him under close surveillance. Seamus was determined to discover the identity of Harry’s mystery girlfriend. Harry had some fun after that, letting his gaze linger longingly on several girls he didn’t know at the other house tables, and only in between them, on a certain blond Slytherin.

After breakfast, Harry, Ron, and Hermione left the Great Hall together for Potions class. They were almost down to the dungeons, when Harry was suddenly, and quite rudely, jostled from behind. At the same time, he felt an affectionate caress against his side. “Must you block the hall, Potter,” said a familiar drawling voice in his left ear, “and make everyone else late as well?”

Harry dodged sideways as Draco elbowed past him. “Missed me, Malfoy!” taunted Harry, as Draco swept ahead. He put a hint of a question in the teasing words that he knew only Draco would catch.

They were just outside the door to the Potions classroom when Draco whirled around. His eyes met Harry’s with a devious glint. “I want a word with you, Potter,” he said. “Alone.”

“Harry, no way,” warned Ron seriously. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t you remember what happened yesterday?”

Harry stopped right in front of Draco, and let his bookbag drop to the floor. _Oh God, yes, I remember what happened yesterday_. He leaned up against the wall facing Draco, his eyes riveted on the Slytherin. “Go to class, Ron,” he said. “I can take care of him – ”

“Harry,” said Hermione firmly, in a tone that Harry and Ron now jokingly referred to as The Head Girl Voice. “This is _not_ a good idea.” She looked sharply at Draco. “Neither of you can afford to get in trouble again for fighting.”

Harry tore his eyes from Draco’s for a second to look at his two friends, but before he could say anything, Draco turned to face Hermione. Harry glanced back at Draco and had to stifle a grin. The look of absolute innocence on Draco’s face could have graced an angel.

“Trust me, Miss Granger,” said Draco, quite solemnly, as he laid his hand meaningfully over his prefect badge. He cut his eyes over to Harry for a split second. “On my honor as a prefect,” he continued, facing Hermione again with the most perfect expression of purity and goodness on his face that Harry had ever seen, “my intentions concerning Mr. Potter do not even _remotely_ resemble fighting.”

Harry choked back a laugh, then grinned at Draco, unable to cover up his reaction to that statement.

“Surely there’s no rule against me talking to Potter, here,” continued Draco, turning his innocent gaze on Harry, “. . . assuming he’s agreeable.”

Harry was aware that Hermione had turned to look at him, but he was caught up in Draco’s eyes, unable to look away from the other boy, who was looking back at him now, grinning too, one dashing eyebrow up, an expression of devilish amusement replacing the cherubic innocence of only a second ago. _God, he is so gorgeous_. As coolly as he could manage, Harry said, “I don’t think it would hurt for me to hear what he has to say.”

“Well . . .” said Hermione, looking from Harry to Draco and back as if they were a puzzle she was trying to work out. “If you’re sure, Harry.”

“Hermione!” interrupted Ron, shocked. “You can’t tell me you’re actually going to _believe_ that prefect honor crap – ”

“I’ll be fine,” said Harry to Hermione, his eyes still locked with Draco’s. “You and Ron go on to class. And,” he said pointedly, “you should hurry, or you'll be late.” They went, but mostly because Hermione was forcefully pushing a reluctant, protesting Ron into the classroom.

As soon as they disappeared through the doorway, Draco dropped his bookbag and took the one step toward Harry that closed the gap between them. The impish amusement was gone from Draco’s eyes, replaced with mesmerizing promises of warm affection. “I had the most wonderful dream last night, Harry,” he said softly, as he reached up and lightly rested his hands on Harry’s shoulders. He pushed Harry gently back against the wall. “You were in my room.” He smiled. “It seemed very real.”

“It _was_ real,” whispered Harry with an answering smile. He leaned back against the wall, feeling suddenly glad for that support.

Draco leaned his head forward and nuzzled up against the side of Harry’s face. “The word,” he murmured in Harry’s ear, “I wanted to say to you is . . . yes.”

Harry felt a feathery kiss, then teeth lightly teased his ear lobe. He shivered as he wrapped his arms around Draco’s waist and pulled their bodies tightly together. “Yes, what?” he whispered.

Draco arched back a little to look in Harry’s eyes again. He grinned. “Yes . . . I missed you.”

Harry laughed quietly. “Me too,” he said, his eyes locked on gray velvet. He ran his hands up Draco’s back, one hand reaching up to tangle in Draco’s hair, to pull him into a kiss. He felt Draco’s hands slide up on both sides of his neck to cradle his face just under his jaw. Then their lips met, and Draco seemed to melt into him. Draco tasted like honey and hot chocolate, and Harry got so lost in the tender passion he felt, and in the sweet warm flavor of that kiss that he never heard the footsteps in the corridor.

But Draco suddenly broke away from him and turned his head to look down the hall. “Quick! Get your books!” he whispered urgently.

Harry looked down the hall as he reached down for his bookbag and gasped. Snape was bearing down on them fast, his eyes narrowed to slits of lethal fury.

Within an instant both Harry and Draco had grabbed up their books and vanished into the classroom, with Snape one sweeping, murderous step behind them. As Harry dropped rather frantically into his seat, he was aware that everyone was watching him and Draco rush in. His heart was pounding, he was alarmed by what Snape might say or do, but he also had to bite down on his lower lip to keep from laughing. He had never felt quite so exhilarated.

Ron caught his eye with a questioning expression, but Harry shook his head, his attention riveted on Snape. The professor was now standing at the front of the classroom with his arms crossed over his chest, his robes gathered around him like the closed wings of some monstrous malevolent bat. He glared first at Draco and then at Harry.

“Malfoy. Potter,” he said finally, in a low cold furious voice. “You will both remain after class.” Then he glared slowly around the room. “Well, what are you all staring at?” he hissed. “Get out your books! This is a classroom, not a stage show!”

There was an immediate flurry of book-getting, and Harry relaxed slightly. Draco looked back at him for one brief glance, his one raised eyebrow saying it all. They would have to wait until after class to find out exactly what Snape had seen.

Harry had spent extra time on his Potions homework the night before, which was a good thing, because though Snape pointedly ignored Draco, the professor drilled Harry with questions constantly during the entire class period, seemingly intent on tripping him up. But Harry was able to answer every question right. Draco, at one point, turned around and flashed him a surreptitious grin. By the end of class, though, Snape was seething, and after class, when Harry stood next to Draco in front of the professor’s desk, he was a little afraid he had only made things worse.

But Snape, standing like a pillar of wrath behind his desk, now completely ignored Harry, and immediately fixed his fierce attention on Draco. He leaned forward, his hands flat on his desk, his black eyes narrowed with anger. “Mr. Malfoy,” he raged, “as Head of your House, I spoke to Professor Dumbledore about yesterday’s incident between you and Mr. Potter, and the headmaster has now made me aware of certain agreements you have with him. Specifically that you would _not_ fight with Mr. Potter. But this morning I find you obviously breaking that promise! Do you not understand the seriousness of this situation!? You could be expelled!!” Snape turned his furious stare on Harry. “And you! Potter, if I find out that you deliberately provoked him – ”

Draco exchanged a puzzled glance with Harry. Could it be that Snape had not actually seen what they were doing? “Sir,” he said evenly, “I _am_ taking my promise to Professor Dumbledore quite seriously. I have not been fighting with Potter.”

“Then how do you explain what I saw this morning,” sputtered Snape, livid with exasperation. “You had him back against the wall, your hands on his throat – ”

Draco looked at Snape for a long moment. He set his bookbag down. “I really don’t want to explain it,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “You’ll have to trust me, sir. We were _not_ fighting.”

Snape’s voice got very icy. “How can I trust you,” he hissed, “when you are telling me something that completely contradicts what I saw with my own eyes. This is too important. I will not have you getting expelled over some trivial incident with Potter. I demand an explanation!”

“But this is a private matter between me and – ”

“NOW!”

Draco turned to Harry, clearly aggravated, and raised one eyebrow in elegant apology.

Harry sighed, and nodded slightly in resignation.

Draco turned back to Snape. He glared at the professor. “All right, then,” he said. “If you must know, I was kissing him.”

“Malfoy,” spit out Snape, “I am warning you for the last time. Do _not_ joke with me about this!”

“It’s _not_ a JOKE!” said Draco, totally exasperated. He turned and looked at Harry.

Harry saw a mischievous calculating sparkle blossom suddenly in Draco’s eyes. He hardly had time to register the warning that look signaled, before Draco stepped over to him, took his face between his hands, and was kissing him very thoroughly. For a second, Harry stood stunned and immobile, but the lips on his were warm, insistent, and irresistible. He dropped his bookbag, wrapped his arms around Draco and kissed him back. Somewhere in the background, he was vaguely aware that, for a moment, it sounded like someone was strangling.

When Draco and Harry finally pulled apart, Harry caught hold of Draco’s hand and laced his fingers with Draco’s. He felt his face flush as Draco’s eyes lingered on his for a moment before they turned to face the professor. Snape was sitting down, having done so quite suddenly, and his hands were balled into tight fists on top of his desk.

For several seconds, Snape just stared from Draco to Harry and back, his face rigid with shocked incomprehension. It looked like a train wreck had happened in his brain. “Are you two quite finished?” he rasped finally, in an enraged whisper.

“Sorry, Professor,” said Draco with perfect composure. “I did try to tell you it was private.”

Harry was fighting a losing battle with the grin that so wanted to break out on his face.

Snape rose up out of his chair in fury. He seemed to tower over Harry and Draco. The pillar of wrath was back. “It most certainly _was_ private,” he said in a vicious, infuriated tone. “And as such, it was completely inappropriate behavior for the public corridor, and I certainly didn't need to be subjected to it either.”

“Well, you didn’t believe me when I _told_ you, sir,” said Draco, a bit of his old smirk lurking around his mouth.

“Oh . . . shut _up_ , Malfoy,” snapped Snape. He speared both of them in turn with an outraged glare. “If I even _hear_ of any repeat performance in public, I will take so many points away from both your Houses, Hufflepuff will win the House Cup! Now get out of here before I give you both detention!” 

“If you do, sir,” said Draco, “can we serve it together?”

“NO! GET OUT!!”

They grabbed up their bookbags and ran.

“AND STOP THAT GRINNING THIS INSTANT, POTTER!”

Snape’s last words echoed after them as they fled down the hall. They ran full out, almost racing each other, stopping finally, laughing and out of breath, at the place where they had to split up to go to different classes.

Harry had to pull his glasses off for a moment to wipe tears out of his eyes. “Oh, Draco,” he said, “I don’t think you should have done that. He did like you.”

Draco just laughed. “I’m glad you’re not mad, Harry. I really wasn’t sure how you’d react.”

Harry shook his head. “God, I loved it,” he said grinning. “And he hated me, anyway. I had nothing to lose. I just hope he doesn’t hate you now too, by association.”

Draco came close and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “He deserved it for the way he was picking on you today. Besides, he’ll get over it,” he said, with another laugh. “That was just the last thing in the world he expected to see, and an opportunity I couldn’t resist.”

“It was bloody brilliant,” said Harry laughing again. “He looked like he’d swallowed a pufferfish wrong way down. But I can’t believe we didn’t get in trouble – what if he tells – ”

“Ha! Who in the world is he going to tell?”

“Er, Dumbledore?”

Draco grinned. “I’m pretty sure Dumbledore already knows a bit of what’s going on with us, Harry. After all, I _was_ holding hands with you right in front of him yesterday.”

Harry looked a little startled. “I didn’t think he saw that.”

Draco laughed. “Of course he did. Why did you think that stuff kept falling off his desk?”

“Gravity?” said Harry with a sheepish grin.

“Idiot,” said Draco affectionately. He slid his hand up to Harry’s neck and toyed with a stray lock of Harry’s hair. “You were really good in class today. What do you have next?”

“Advanced Meds with Madam Pomfrey.”

“Didn’t know there was such a thing,” said Draco, a puzzled expression in his gray eyes.

“Er,” said Harry, “well . . . there’s not actually. I’m the only one in it, and I – ” Harry stopped short, suddenly acutely embarrassed. “I . . . well . . . hardly anyone knows about it.”

Draco raised his eyebrows in surprise. “A secret, Harry?”

“No,” said Harry quickly. “It’s just that . . . I don’t usually talk about it much.”

Draco looked at Harry thoughtfully, then shook his head at Harry’s worried expression. “Then I promise I won’t ask. But . . . do you like it?”

“I love it,” said Harry, relieved at Draco’s somewhat unexpected willingness not to press him on it. “It’s my favorite subject. I even like doing the homework.”

“Hmm,” said Draco, still regarding Harry intently. Then his eyes softened. “Speaking of homework – I was hoping you might come earlier tonight, Harry. After dinner. We could do our homework together.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “I’d like that.”

Draco smiled, and leaned close to Harry’s ear. “I’d kiss you,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “but you never know who’s watching around here, and I really couldn’t bear it if Hufflepuff won the House Cup.”

“Save it for me, then,” whispered Harry back. “For tonight.”

Draco gazed at Harry, his eyes kindling. “I definitely will,” he said, softly. He tilted his head slightly, and raised one pale elegant brow. “It’s my move next, you know.” He gave Harry’s hair a playful tug, then let his hand slip away, trailing his fingers slowly, lightly down Harry’s jawline. “See you tonight, then,” he added, and with a swirl of robes, turned and walked away down the corridor.

Harry watched him go for a moment, wondering if his heart was still beating hard from running or if it had something to do with that goodbye. Then he turned and rushed off to the hospital wing, hoping to have some excuse and an apology for being late ready for Madam Pomfrey by the time he got there.

Later, at lunch in the Great Hall, Ron was almost beside himself from the suspense of not knowing what had happened to Harry after Potions class. Hermione, on the other hand, said nothing, but simply studied Harry, a very thoughtful expression in her brown eyes – eyes that every now and then glanced over to the Slytherin table, to focus equally thoughtfully on a certain blond Slytherin. A certain blond Slytherin whose gaze, she noticed, tended to stray quite often in Harry’s direction. But Harry didn’t see this, since Ron was impatiently pestering him for the details of what Snape had done.

All Harry could say was that Snape had yelled at him, and that he wasn’t really in trouble. Harry did wish he could tell Ron what Draco had done – Ron would have so loved to see that look of undisguised utter incomprehension on Snape’s face – that is, if Ron even noticed due to having an identical reaction. No, Ron would just have to miss out on this one. But Harry realized that he wouldn’t be able to keep this secret much longer from his best friend. And telling him was not going to be easy.

* * * * * 

Seamus poked his head in the door of the steamy bathroom, for what was probably the eighth time. He grinned at Harry, who was standing in front of the mirror, comb in hand and a frown on his face.

For Harry, it was like being tormented by a bloody cuckoo clock. “Get out of here!” he said, both annoyed and amused. “You’re not helping!” Harry had run upstairs after dinner to take a quick shower, had changed into his nicest shirt and best pair of jeans, and was now standing in front of the mirror, unsuccessfully trying to tame his unruly, just-washed hair.

Seamus batted his eyes. “Ooooh, Harry, you look sooo pretty.”

Harry glared at him, then grabbed up a soaking wet towel and threw it at him. But Seamus pulled the door shut as a shield, disappearing for a moment. The towel hit the door with a sloppy thud and dropped to the floor.

Seamus poked his head back in. “You look great, Harry,” he said, still grinning. “And you know, if last night was any indication, whatever you do to your hair now is just going to get messed up again anyway.” He stepped into the bathroom and took Harry’s comb out of his hand. “Want me to have a go?”

“No!” said Harry, snatching the comb away and setting it down on the far side of the sink. He took one last critical look in the mirror, then turned to face his friend. “Okay,” he said, grinning slyly back at Seamus, “I guess you’re right. It probably _is_ just going to get messed up again. Maybe a _lot_. And maybe somebody _else’s_ hair is going to get messed up, too.”

Seamus wiggled his eyebrows at Harry suggestively. “And whose hair would that be, Harry?” he coaxed.

Harry stepped past Seamus to the door. He paused for a moment, then in one swift motion, he scooped up the sloppy, wet towel and plopped it over Seamus’ head. “Yours, you prat!” He caught one delightful glimpse of Seamus grappling with the wet towel, rivulets of water running down his neck into his collar, as he took off. He barely made it out the door before the colorful Irish cursing started. He raced up to his room to get his books. He stuffed his Invisibility Cloak in his bookbag too, just in case he might need it on the way back, then hurried down to the common room to go out.

He was surprised to see Ron sitting at a table in the deserted common room, studying alone. Harry had already wasted a lot of time getting ready, and he was anxious to go, but he couldn’t just walk out without speaking to Ron. So instead of going straight out the portrait hole as he’d intended, he detoured and sat down at the table with his red-haired roommate. “Where’s Hermione?” he asked, as Ron looked up. “I didn’t expect to see you here by yourself.”

Ron pushed his book aside and waved his quill toward the girls’ dorm rooms. He had a martyred expression on his face. “She’s looking at wedding robes in catalogs with my sister and Lavender and Parvati. I thought we were keeping our engagement secret, but if those girls know. . . . ” He ran one hand through his red hair. “Lord, you’ve never heard such giggling. I had to get far away.” Then he grinned. “Going out again, Harry?”

Harry colored slightly, but grinned back. “Yeah, I have a . . . study date.”

Ron propped his chin in his hand and studied Harry for a moment. “I haven’t seen you look like this in a long time. You look happy. Hermione and I have been worried about you, you know. Is it okay if I tell her you’re seeing someone?”

“Okay – but no one else. We don’t want this to get out for a while.”

“I can’t believe you’re being so secretive about it, Harry – I mean, can’t you at least tell _me_ who it is. I won’t tell the other guys.”

Harry sighed and looked down at the table. “I can’t yet, Ron. I just need to be sure of what I’m feeling this time.” He knew Ron and Hermione were sure of how they felt about each other. You could see it when their eyes met. _Will Draco and I ever look at each other like that?_ he wondered. He looked up, hesitated for a moment, then asked, “How did you know you were . . . in love? I thought I was before, but . . . ” _I don’t want to make the same mistake again_.

Ron absently stroked the feather of his quill while he considered the question. “Well, how do you feel now?” he said finally. “Compared to before – ”

Harry couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he said softly. “This person is smart, and funny . . . and pretty . . . _(well, he is)_ . . . and . . . so. . . .” Harry trailed off. He’d been about to say, _so gentle_ , but was suddenly struck by the absurdity of describing Draco Malfoy like that to Ron Weasley.

Ron laughed at him. “And, I take it from the look you had on your face last night, that the kissing was pretty good too.”

“Ron,” said Harry in a lowered voice, meeting Ron’s teasing blue eyes earnestly. “I meant it last night when I said I was serious about this. Last night was the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me in a relationship, and that had nothing to do with the kissing. Which _was_ spectacular,” he added, blushing in spite of his most fervent wish not to.

“You do have it bad, don’t you?” said Ron, grinning and shaking his head. “But Harry, when you’re in love, you know it. You don’t have to think about it.”

“Hmmm,” said Harry, slowly standing up, looking pensive. He shouldered his bookbag. Then he grinned. “Wedding robes, Ron!?! God!”

“Oh,” moaned Ron, dropping his face into his hands. “Don’t remind me. When I proposed, I had no idea of all the stuff that’s involved in planning a wedding.”

Harry snickered. “I imagine it was more like your wedding night you had on your mind, wasn’t it?” Ron still had his face in his hands, but Harry saw his ears turn almost red enough to match his hair.

“Aren’t you late, or something, Harry?” muttered Ron from behind his hands.

“Yes, very,” laughed Harry. He turned to start toward the portrait hole, but just then he heard running footsteps on the stairs, and Ginny bounced into the room.

She smiled at both boys, excitement shining in her bright brown eyes. “Oh Ronnie-kins,” she cooed teasingly at her older brother. “Hermione wants you upstairs to look at something.” She turned and looked up at Harry. “Hi, Harry,” she continued brightly. “I’m sure Hermione won’t mind if you come up and look too. It’s _sooo_ pretty.” She sighed dramatically. “I just love weddings.”

“Harry can’t come,” said Ron in a disgruntled tone, as he stood up. “ _He_ has a date.”

Ginny’s eyes widened and she looked at Harry with avid interest. “Oh, wow.” She smiled. “That’s great, Harry. Who is it?”

Harry looked from Ginny to Ron and shook his head. “Some secret keeper you are, Ron,” he said, with a laugh.

Ron looked sheepish for a moment. “Oh well,” he said. “She’s family, that doesn’t count.”

“What!?” said Ginny. “Why is it a secret?”

“I just need time to be sure about this, before it gets out all over the school,” said Harry, and he saw the expression in Ginny’s eyes change to understanding.

“I won’t say a word, Harry,” said Ginny. “I promise.” She cast a wickedly mischievous look at her brother. “Not like _some_ people.” She stuck her tongue out at Ron. Ron pretended to swat at her head and she laughed.

“Thanks Gin,” said Harry, gratefully. He knew she would keep her word. She had never pestered him for the details of his break-up when school started back, the way Ron and Hermione had at first. Instead, she had simply been around, supportive, understanding, and cheerful. She had been the one who had actually consoled him the most. He had even wondered then if something might happen between them, but it hadn’t. The crush she had had on him had deepened into loving friendship. And as for his feelings for her, she was very dear to him, like all of the Weasleys, she was as Ron had just stated, family. “I’ll tell you as soon as I can,” he said smiling down at her.

“I’ll be breathless with anticipation,” she teased.

Harry laughed. He turned away and took a couple of steps toward the exit, then turned back as Ginny called out.

“Hey,” she said. “Have either of you seen Seamus. I wanted to borrow his Herbology notes.”

Harry gave her a wide grin. “Last time I saw him, he was upstairs in the bathroom. He was having a little, er, trouble with his hair.” Then he turned to Ron. “And don’t you guys wait up for me tonight!” he added. He went out the portrait hole and stood still for a moment. _I do feel happy_ , he thought. Then he took off at a jog. He was much later than he’d meant to be.

* * * * * 

Within seconds after Harry knocked on Draco’s door, Draco looked out, his expression an odd mixture of hope and aggravation. “Harry,” he said, his expression resolving into relief. “It’s a good thing it’s you this time.” He opened the door wider to let Harry come in.

Harry stepped into the room, noticing that Draco was wearing black jeans again, this time with a charcoal gray turtleneck. He was barefooted again too.

“There have been more people up here this evening,” said Draco as he closed the door firmly behind Harry. “First Snape came up to speak to me _again_ about this morning, and then Granger had a discipline problem with some kid in Ravenclaw that she wanted to talk about.”

Harry looked at Draco in surprise. _Hermione was here?_

“And then those girls came up,” continued Draco. “I swear, if you had been one of those girls again . . . ”

“One of those girls?” asked Harry, puzzled. He walked over to the chair he had sat in last night and set his bookbag down. “What girls?”

Draco followed Harry over to the chair. He looked both amused and irritated. “Oh wait ‘til you hear this,” he said, with a short sarcastic laugh. “It involves you, too. There are two sixth year girls in my House – and I don't even know their bloody names – but evidently they saw us in the hall together yesterday morning, and decided we looked like perfect dates for the Yule Ball.”

Harry groaned. _Not the Yule Ball again_. “I remember them,” he said flatly. “The gigglers. I saw them talking to you at lunch yesterday, too.”

“Yeah, well, they came up here tonight, as well. They think we can double-date! I had already told Pansy I was not taking her to the Ball this year – so I think for revenge, she must have told them I was available.”

Harry looked up at that, and met Draco’s rather annoyed gaze. He reached up and lightly brushed the long blond fringe back from the other boy’s eyes, and saw the annoyance evaporate as Draco smiled, his eyes going warm at Harry’s touch. Draco was looking at him again in that way that sent fluttery sensations stirring inside him, and turned his knees to jelly. _Available!?_ Harry suddenly knew he didn’t want those eyes to look at anyone else the way they were looking at him just now. “You are most definitely _not_ available, love,” said Harry softly, and then his breath caught in his throat as Draco’s eyes ignited into molten silver at his words.

Draco stood quite still, his eyes locked with Harry’s, those silver eyes reflecting his own and Harry’s surprise at the unexpected endearment like a mirror between them. Then he leaned into Harry, threw his arms around Harry’s neck, and dropped his head onto Harry’s shoulder, his face buried between his arm and Harry’s neck.

_Wow_ , thought Harry, quite surprised at himself. _Did I really just call him ‘love’?_ He smoothed the hair down the back of Draco’s head and held him tight. He could feel Draco’s heart pounding. _Oh, yes_ , he thought then, with a quiet thrill. _I can turn_ him _into jelly, too_. He turned his head and nuzzled into Draco’s silky hair. They stood that way for a long moment, then Harry felt, as much as heard, the words that Draco whispered against his skin.

“Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”

“Yes,” Harry whispered back. “And I like it – knowing I can do that to you.”

“No one’s ever called me that before.”

Harry rubbed one hand gently up and down Draco’s back for a minute, then reached up and ruffled the other boy’s hair mischievously. “I could call you Poopsie-Kins, if you’d rather,” he whispered.

There was a second of silence, then a muffled gagging noise in response. Draco lifted his head to look at Harry, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile with an expression of horrified insult. “There is no way in hell I’m answering to that,” he said. Then he raised one eyebrow, and the smile turned into a wicked grin. “Or perhaps you fancy being my ickle Dumplin-Wumplin, Harry?”

“Oh, God. Screw that!” said Harry laughing.

Draco laughed too, and then his eyes softened. He reached up, carefully took off Harry’s glasses, and set them on the table next to the chess set. “You asked me to save this for you this morning – ‘til tonight. . . . ” Then he leaned in and kissed Harry slowly and tenderly, the way he had that first night in the corridor.

“Oh,” said Harry, when Draco pulled away, his voice breathless and warm, but also teasing. “Do you have any idea what you just did to _me?_ ”

Draco put his hands on Harry’s shoulders and shoved him playfully down into the chair. “I hope so,” he said with a delighted smile. Then he walked over to his desk and sat down. He turned around in his chair for a moment, watching Harry put his glasses back on and lean down to get his books out of his bag. Then he grinned. “Hey,” he said. “D-W.”

Harry looked up from his bookbag, frowning slightly, puzzled. Then he snorted and rolled his eyes. “I am _not_ answering to that,” he said.

Draco snickered. “Hurry up with that homework. We have a game to play.”

Harry grinned back at him. “Then stop distracting me.” He paused for effect. “P-K.”

They looked at each other for a second and then both broke up, dissolving helplessly into laughter. Finally, they turned to their books, but the next few minutes were interrupted by several intermittent spells of involuntary giggling.

In a short time, though, they settled into studying, and Harry looked up now and then to glance at Draco. He liked it here, in this room, with the fire burning cozily in the grate beside him. It was comfortable and calm here, not like the often frenetic common room or the dormitories. And Draco’s presence was oddly comfortable and calming too; Harry liked hearing the quiet sounds of Draco turning pages and the soft scratching of his quill on parchment as he wrote. Harry found that for once he was actually able to concentrate on what he was reading.

Harry had finished everything but his Potions homework, and was stuck trying to understand the complex instructions for a list of potions ingredients that made no sense to him, when Draco pushed his chair back and started packing up his books and parchments. Then Draco walked over to the side of the table and stood looking down, studying the chessboard. Harry looked up from his book to watch him.

Draco turned his head and raised his eyebrows at Harry. “Nearly done?” he asked.

“Almost,” said Harry irritably. “I just have Potions left – but I don’t get it at all. It’s like a puzzle or something – ”

Draco smiled knowingly and came to sit on the arm of Harry’s chair. He leaned in to look at Harry’s book with him. “It’s not really a puzzle,” he said. “It’s just that some of the more advanced potions take precautions to be sure you know what you’re doing before you can make it. Some of the really dangerous potions _do_ use puzzles or riddles, but for this one, you just have to know potions ingredients really well.”

Harry shook his head. “Well, that’s the problem. I’ve never even _heard_ of these ingredients.” He looked up at Draco. “I suppose _you_ had no trouble with it.”

Draco laughed. “Well, no,” he admitted. “This one was fairly simple.”

“That figures,” muttered Harry. “Then would you please explain it to me?”

“Maybe,” said Draco with an impish grin. “What do I get if I do?”

“The pleasure of watching me provoke Snape again by knowing all the answers in class,” said Harry, grinning back. Then he said more seriously, “And the satisfaction of knowing you kept me from failing Potions this term. I really need your help.”

Draco staged a sigh. “Well . . . I don’t know,” he said with an air of indifference. “That’s hardly what _I_ had in mind.”

Harry gave him a slightly exasperated look. “Then help me get finished with my homework so you can take your turn in the chess game. Then you can _do_ whatever it is you have in mind.”

Draco fixed Harry with that intense mesmerizing jelly-inducing gaze, then slowly grinned. “I think I was going to be doing that anyway,” he said in a soft teasing tone.

Harry looked down, blushing slightly.

Draco laughed at him. “Okay,” he said relenting. “I’ll help.” He leaned back in to look at Harry’s book again. “To start with,” he said, “this is a Hex Mirror Potion. It’s related to the Hex Repellent we just studied, except that this potion is supposed to cause any hex directed at the user to reflect back on the sender.” Draco looked back at Harry. “Unfortunately, in practice, that’s not quite how it works. It’s gotten the nickname Spell-Bouncer, because it’s actually very unpredictable – there is no way to control how the spells reflect and some very nasty ricochet effects have been reported by duelers who have tried it.” He laughed lightly. “In fact, there was one supposed case where both of the duelers had taken it, and the hexes bounced around so much that they took out both seconds and several of the witnesses. It’s also pretty tricky to make, and usually requires two people to do it right. The potion itself can be dangerous, possibly even explode, if the ingredients are not prepared and added in the correct order. That’s why the precautions are taken with the ingredient names, to be sure a wizard is at a certain level of training before attempting to make it.”

“God, Draco, how do you know all that?” said Harry, very impressed. “None of that is in our book.”

“I read _other_ books, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “Yes, of course you do,” he said. “I should have known. Okay. Tell me about the ingredients.”

Draco smiled and pulled Harry’s book closer. “What you have here is a list of ingredient descriptions instead of a list of ingredient names, like you’re used to. You have to know the ingredients well enough to recognize them by their descriptions or main properties before you can do this potion.” He pointed to a line on the page. “For example, when it says Spikes of Heart’s-Ease, it means foxglove, because that plant blooms in tall spikes and is often used as an ingredient in heart medicines.”

“Hmm,” said Harry. “I _did_ know that – from my Meds class.”

Draco shook his head. “Harry, I don’t know how you can like Magical Medicine and not like Potions. It’s almost the same thing. Mediwizards have to be good Potions masters, or else they have to work very closely with one.”

“It’s not the Potions part I like,” said Harry. “And most of what I’m studying is, well . . . quite different.” He bent his head to read the next ingredient on the list. “Oh, hey, I think I get this one now. It says Optic Orb of Amphibian. Ha – that would be eye of newt!” He looked back up at Draco with a satisfied grin.

“Told you it was simple,” said Draco, grinning back. He turned around and slid backwards off the arm of the chair down into Harry’s lap, scattering Harry’s parchments and knocking his book to the floor.

“Draco! What – I’m not done yet!”

“Sorry. Time’s up.”

“What time’s up?” asked Harry, smiling, leaning his head back against the chair, looking into teasing gray eyes, amused.

“The time that I can stand to stay away and not bother you.” Draco’s arms slid around Harry’s neck. “I never have been able to leave you alone for long, Harry.”

Harry chuckled. “I’ve noticed that,” he said, putting his arms around Draco’s waist.

For a moment, Draco didn’t reply. Then he said, “No, you didn’t.”

“What are you talking about? I always noticed when you were bothering me – you did it quite a lot.”

“I mean, the last three months, you didn’t notice when I stopped. I left you alone because Dumbledore made me promise to. It felt like hell to me, Harry. I missed you so much I couldn’t sleep. But when I asked you about it, in the hall the other night, you had to think. You hadn’t noticed.”

Harry looked seriously at Draco, trying to gauge this sudden shift in mood. Harry saw no anger in the other boy’s gaze, only something distant, something a little sad. “I would miss you now,” said Harry softly.

“Why?” asked Draco. Then he quickly added, “No, don’t answer that.” He pushed himself away and got up from Harry’s lap. He bent down, picked up Harry’s Potions text and handed it back to him. Then he stepped over to the chessboard and made a move. “Pawn to A4. Finish your homework, Harry. When you’re done, there’s something we have to talk about.”

Harry watched Draco walk away, over to his window and open it. Then in one quick graceful motion, Draco put his hands on the sill and jumped up to sit on the ledge. He turned to sit sideways on the ledge, pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around his legs and stared out the window. _He must do that a lot_ , thought Harry, recognizing the smooth habit-quality of the action. He looked down at his Potions book and then retrieved his sheets of parchment from the floor. He looked back at Draco. There was something inexpressibly lonely about the way he was sitting there.

Somehow, Harry had never pictured Draco being alone. Hadn’t he always had people following him around, especially Crabbe and Goyle? Wasn’t he always the center of attention everywhere he went, even if it was negative attention? At least Harry had always thought the Slytherins practically worshipped him. But now, he wondered if any of them had ever really had _Draco’s_ attention, had ever touched _him_. Maybe Draco had always been alone inside, even if surrounded by adoring housemates. _Alone and wanting to be with me_ , thought Harry. “ _I missed you so much, I couldn’t sleep. But you didn’t notice_.” How was he supposed to finish his homework now?

He turned his attention back to his book again anyway, and tried to concentrate. The sooner he got done, the sooner he could find out what this was about. He managed to figure out four more of the ingredients before he came to one that completely stumped him. “Draco?” he said cautiously. The blond head turned toward him slightly. “What’s Night Knight Liquefying Liquid?” asked Harry.

“Armadillo bile,” said Draco, turning back to look out the window.

“Er,” said Harry. “I . . . don’t get it. Well, I get that the liquefying liquid is the bile, but not the other part.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder, and leaned his head back against the wall. “Armadillos are nocturnal animals,” he said in so low a tone that Harry had to strain to hear him. “They have protective plating on their bodies, like a knight in armor.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “I see . . . I guess . . . thanks . . .”

Draco simply shrugged again and turned back to look out the window.

Harry managed to struggle through the rest as best he could, his concentration shattered by Draco’s distant behavior. Finally, he rolled up his parchment and put his things back into his bookbag. Then, he got up and crossed the room to the window. “I’m done,” he said quietly. He leaned against the wall under the window and laid one arm up on the window ledge. Draco pulled his feet back a little to make room for him. _God, he even has pretty feet_ , thought Harry, and he wanted to touch Draco, to reestablish their closeness, if only in a small way.

He reached out tentatively and laid one hand lightly over Draco’s bare left foot, surprised to feel how warm it was, even though the air coming in the open window was quite chilly. He felt Draco startle at his touch, but he didn’t move away. After a second, one of Draco’s pale, slender hands moved from his knee, slid down his shin, and came to rest on top of Harry’s hand. _And_ , thought Harry, _he has beautiful hands. He’s elegant down to his bones_. Harry looked up to find that Draco was looking down at him and their eyes met. “You said we had to talk . . .” prompted Harry gently.

Draco’s hand slipped away from Harry’s, and he pulled his foot out of Harry’s light grasp. He jumped down from the ledge, then turned to face Harry. “I’m really tired,” he said softly. “I haven’t slept well for several nights, and . . . I . . . I’m not used to talking like this with anyone. It’s hard and . . . it hurts. I feel wrung out.” He paused for a moment, then continued hesitantly. “I thought maybe . . . would you mind . . .”

Harry closed his eyes, feeling suddenly stung, thinking Draco was going to ask him to leave.

“. . . if I lie down while we talk. You don’t have to . . . you can sit at the end of the bed if you’d rather.”

Harry opened his eyes and returned Draco’s questioning and somewhat wistful gaze. Draco wasn’t asking him to leave? “No, I . . . I wouldn’t mind,” said Harry, slowly.

Draco turned back to the window and pulled it closed. Then he walked around Harry and went over to his bed. He lay down, scooting over toward the middle, and stretched out on his back, his legs crossed at the ankles, one arm draped loosely across his stomach, the other over his eyes.

Harry stood watching him for a moment, then walked over and sat on the edge of the bed at the foot. He wasn’t sure what else to do. He toed his shoes off, pulled his feet up under him so that he was sitting crossed-legged on the bed, and waited.

“Harry . . . I . . .” began Draco, in a low voice. “I did a lot of thinking . . . last night, after you left. What happened last night wasn’t what I expected at all. I never expected you to ask me about that kiss, or want to be with me that way . . . not after everything I’ve done, even if I have changed. I expected you to ask me questions about my father, about the Death Eaters and dark magic.” He paused to take a rather ragged breath. “I really don’t know much. My father didn’t entirely trust my . . . loyalty to his interests, because I kept avoiding things he wanted me to do . . . but whatever you want to know . . . I’ll tell.”

_Oh bloody hell_ , thought Harry. He was so tired of this subject, of the incessant questions he had to endure from everyone, of the war that had never happened and so hung over them all like a relentless dark cloud, of the way it tainted his future. He was so sick of it all. He closed his eyes and tried to get control over the deep frustration he felt that this should have to come up between them, that it couldn’t just be ignored, as he so much wanted to do. Finally he said, “I don’t want to know _any_ of it, Draco.” His voice was low, his tone drained and a little bitter. “I’m not an informant for the Ministry of Magic. If you have information they can use, you’ll have to tell them yourself. I only want to be left out of it – so you can stop worrying – that’s one subject I don’t intend to bring up, or want to talk about.”

Draco slowly sat up, his hair falling unnoticed over his eyes. He frowned at Harry. “But _I_ need to talk about it, Harry. There’s no one else for me to tell – and I can’t. . . .” He paused and looked down at his hands. Then he said quietly, “Don’t you want to – ”

“What?” interrupted Harry, suddenly venting his angry frustration. “Be a hero? Get killed fighting Voldemort? No, I don’t. I’m sick of it. I don’t plan to have any part of it, if I can help it.”

Draco looked up at Harry a bit startled, then resolutely continued his sentence. “ – to know if I was forced to be one of them? A Death Eater? Branded with the Dark Mark?”

Harry stared at Draco, his anger suddenly washed away by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He looked down at Draco’s arms, which were, as usual covered. Harry couldn’t remember seeing Draco dressed in anything but long sleeved shirts or sweaters. _Oh God, no_. He looked back up and met Draco’s haunted eyes. “Were you?” he whispered. _Oh, please not . . . yes_.

“Yes.”

_No no no_. Harry suddenly felt many things crash down inside him. More than anything, he felt anger and revulsion to think that Draco’s perfect body was disfigured with that cursed mark. If they _had_ done that, he _would_ fight. Harry watched with a growing sense of horror and apprehension as, as if in slow motion, Draco took hold of the bottom hem of his sweater and pulled it up and then off over his head. Draco’s arms came slowly out of the sleeves, one at a time, each one in turn, pale, smooth, and unmarked. Harry looked at Draco with relief and then confusion. Had he been joking? But, no, Draco’s eyes were still deadly serious.

“It’s there,” he said very softly. “You just can’t see it.” He crossed his arms over his bare chest, his hands gripping his own shoulders, and shivered. “It’s inside me,” he said, his words barely an audible breath, “and . . .”

Harry stared at Draco, fighting with conflicting emotions, waiting for him continue.

Draco suddenly let his arms drop limply into his lap. “And, we can't go on, Harry . . . _I_ can’t go on . . . with what is starting between us, unless I know _you_ know everything that I am. And that you still want me after that.” His head dropped down. “ _If_ you still want me after that. . . .” He took a deep breath and lifted his head to look at Harry. “Right now, I don't understand why you want to be with me at all.”

Harry looked away. _I don’t understand it either_. He pulled his feet out from under him and stood up. He was aware that Draco's questioning eyes followed him, looking up at him through long dusky lashes. He stood with his back to the bed for a moment more, then turned to look at Draco. Sitting partly in the shade of the bed curtains and partly in the glow of the lamplight, Draco seemed sculpted, perfect, and infinitely desirable, his slim body fashioned of ivory and gold, light and shadow.

The list of things Harry had told Ron earlier that evening ran through Harry's mind. Funny . . . smart . . . pretty. . . . God, right now, achingly beautiful, was more accurate. But these were all shallow things that had nothing to do with the deep reality that Harry was feeling, a feeling that he wasn't sure he could explain at all. He felt awed quite suddenly by what Draco was offering him. And why did Draco want to be with him? He wasn’t as smart, and certainly not, most definitely not, pretty. “I could ask you the same question,” he said at last, his tone gentle, not accusing. “I don't really know why you want to be with me either.”

Draco groaned and laid back down, his eyes closed, his arms crossed limply over each other across his stomach, his face turned slightly away from Harry, pale hair fanned out over the paler white of the pillow. It seemed a gesture full of weariness, withdrawal, and raw waiting, as the tension of unspoken feelings hung suspended in the air between them like an emptiness that ached to be filled.

Harry looked down at Draco from the side of the bed. Another person, another time, eclipsed his vision briefly, past intruding on the present. For a moment, he was frozen, afraid he would be caught up, helpless in the grip of that pain again, but there was very little power in that image now, and he found it wasn’t difficult to shake it off. He couldn't let the fear of being hurt again stand between him and what he should do now. What he knew he would regret forever if he didn't do now. He put one knee up on the bed and leaned forward with his hands on the bed so that he was looking down on Draco. “Draco,” he whispered.

Draco turned his head back slowly and opened his eyes.

Harry almost looked away from the loneliness that was swimming in those deep gray eyes. “I can’t explain this,” he said. “I can’t give you reasons. But I _can_ tell you with absolute certainty that I want to be here. That I want to do this.” He eased down onto the bed to lie on his back next to Draco, at the same time slipping one arm under Draco’s head to circle his shoulders, pulling the other boy gently against him. “And I want to hear whatever you need to tell me.”

Draco turned onto his side and allowed himself to be drawn into Harry’s embrace. He fitted himself into Harry’s side, his shoulder under Harry’s arm, and laid his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, and his breath caught as his hands slid across the bare skin of Draco’s back, skin that was warm and satiny soft under his touch. He reached up and smoothed the hair down the back of Draco’s head, and felt Draco sigh and relax into him. He felt Draco’s hand move to unbutton his shirt, starting at the collar and working down, pressing each button down against him for a second, holding it still until he could work it loose using only one hand. Then that warm hand was sliding inside his shirt, to rest over his collarbone, gentle fingers caressing the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his throat.

“Harry?” whispered Draco. “There’s something I need to know.”

Harry turned his head so that his lips brushed Draco’s hair. “What’s that?” he whispered back.

“Last night, you acted like nothing had ever been wrong between us. But we both know I’ve done and said a lot of very hurtful things. How can you just ignore that – how can you act like they never happened?”

Harry was silent for a moment, thinking. Draco was right, he _had_ completely ignored the past between them. “I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but, somehow, and I guess it was while I was thinking about you in Binns’ class yesterday morning, when I finally realized that you had meant that kiss, that you had meant everything you had told me that night in the hall, it was like none of that past stuff mattered anymore.”

Draco shifted slightly, pressing his face into Harry’s neck. “I’m just afraid,” he said very softly, “that sometime, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week or next year, you’ll remember something that I did, and you’ll change your mind about me again.”

Harry hugged him and smiled. “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen. If I did that, I’d have to change my mind about being with you like this, and . . . I really like this.” Harry tilted his head and laid his cheek against the top of Draco’s head. “Actually, it’s funny, but this is the only thing that upset me. I was completely freaked out at first, that I was feeling attracted to you. But maybe we’ve always had these feelings, and were too young to know what it meant – so we reacted by wanting to beat the crap out of each other. I don’t know – I always felt so frustrated with you, because you weren’t what I wanted you to be, because I couldn’t like you.”

“And I was hurt that you didn’t like me.”

“So it makes sense, I guess, that all that frustration and hurt turned into anger between us. I even really hated you for a while – after what you said about Cedric on the train after he died.”

“God, Harry, it was a miracle you weren’t killed with him. When Dumbledore made that announcement, when I realized how close you had come to dying too, I was so shocked I couldn’t stand. I remember being vaguely aware that a lot of people at my table copied me and didn’t stand either, and I was grateful at the time because it let me cover up my reaction.”

Draco rose up on one elbow and looked down at Harry. “That’s why I said what I said on the train,” he explained quietly. “I was scared for you, Harry. I didn’t want you to be killed. But I didn’t want anyone to know that. So I thought I could come to your compartment and sneer at you and your friends the way I always did, act like I didn’t care . . . but I couldn’t keep it up. I was furious with you for picking the wrong side, for putting yourself in such danger by siding with the very people that would be the first targets. I kept thinking that if you had been my friend instead, you would be safe.”

He sighed and laid back down, settling back against Harry’s side, then sliding down a bit until his head was resting on Harry’s chest. “It was after that, over that summer and later,” he said after a minute, “that I first started to understand that maybe I was feeling more about you than I knew before. It’s also when I started seeing my father differently. He changed too, after Voldemort came back. And I started to see that maybe _I_ was the one who had picked the wrong side.” Draco moved his hand deeper under Harry’s shirt. “I had to be very careful though, not to let him see that.” He was silent for a long moment. “It’s your move, Harry,” he said softly.

Harry tightened his arms around Draco and thought for a bit. “Bishop to D6,” he said finally. “Tell me what you meant about the Dark Mark, why you said you have it inside you.”

“Because it’s why I was born,” said Draco in a flat scornful tone. “It’s the future I’ve been given no choice in. I was supposed to be the perfect little Lucius Malfoy duplicate, to carry on _his_ life, _his_ plans. My father’s sole purpose for my life was to have me become a Death Eater. Ever since I can remember, my father has talked about it, described the ceremony, told me countless times how I would have to act, how I must not dare show fear, or react to the pain. Since Voldemort came back, my father has tested me constantly, tried to get me used to pain, so that I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of the Dark Lord.”

“What do you mean, Draco? He hit you?”

“Oh no,” said Draco, with a sharp bitter laugh. “He would never do anything so crude as to actually touch me. Ever had the Cruciatus Curse done on you, Harry?”

“Yes,” said Harry, numbly. _Oh God_. “Voldemort did, twice. God, Draco, your own father did that to you?”

“A lot more than twice. My father was always too busy to fuss with me much. He allowed me to be spoiled, laughed when I terrorized the house-elves. He made sure I knew what was expected of a Malfoy, demanded I make the best grades, but he didn’t take much active interest in doing anything with me. But he could also be intolerant and unpredictable, and casting a forbidden curse on me was sometimes his idea of a parlor joke, or he would become enraged over something trivial and cast that on me as punishment. After Voldemort came back, though, he started with the Dark Mark training. And it doesn’t matter, Harry, how many times you feel that bloody curse. You can never, ever, get used to it.”

“But what about your mother, Draco. Surely she – ”

“Didn’t know, didn’t care – I have no idea. To be fair, she probably did care when I was small. I have some bits of memories that are nice. But in the last few years my mother has been . . . well, indifferent to everything. I know it will sound horrible, and I don’t mean it that way, Harry, but sometimes, in the last two years I have wished I were you – that it was my parents that were dead instead of yours.”

Harry couldn’t think of anything to say. This was beyond horrible. He lay still, holding Draco as tightly as he could, letting silence, and some distance from what had been said, settle around them. Finally, he whispered, “I’m so sorry.” He felt Draco’s arm tighten against him, a slight hug in response, and he hugged Draco back.

“Knight to D6,” said Draco, after a moment. He pulled his hand out from under Harry’s shirt and tugged at the collar. “Take this off,” he whispered.

Harry didn’t move for a moment, then he slowly sat up, pulling his arm out from around Draco. Draco sat up too. Harry pulled his shirttail out and fumbled with the buttons at the bottom of his shirt that Draco had not undone, the trembling in his hands making it difficult to work them loose. Finally, he pulled off the shirt and dropped it to the floor beside the bed.

“Those too,” said Draco, his voice still a whisper, as he lightly touched the frame of Harry’s glasses.

Harry took them off, folded them, and leaned over the side of the bed to set them carefully on top of his shirt. He sat back up and faced Draco, their eyes meeting, green and silver-gray melting together in a shivery hush of anticipation.

Draco reached out and took Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’ve never done anything like this with anyone,” he said in a soft awed tone. He lowered his eyes, then laid his other hand on Harry’s shoulder, sliding his fingertips very slowly, lightly across the top of Harry’s bare shoulder to stroke the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck.

Harry closed his eyes and let himself be swept away by the tantalizing gentleness of that touch. He clung to the hand he held tightly, as if it were his only anchor in a sea of shifting waves of feeling. He felt the mattress under him shift slightly, felt the warmth of Draco’s body so very close to him, then Draco was leaning against him, and Harry caught his breath as a tremor thrilled through him.

Draco pressed a feather-light kiss just in front of Harry’s ear, then he rested his forehead against the side of Harry’s head. “It feels so good to touch you, Harry,” he whispered in Harry’s ear. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

“I haven’t either,” whispered Harry back. He turned his head and found Draco’s mouth with his own in a tender melting crush. The hand Harry held pulled out of his grasp and slid around his waist, while the hand on the back of his neck came up to touch his face, fingers sliding under his ear, over his jaw, warm palm coming to rest against his cheek, claiming him, gently coaxing him deeper into the kiss.

Harry slipped his arms around Draco’s back and pulled Draco against him. Draco felt so warm and perfect in his arms as their bodies came together. And Harry felt again that so simple, yet so profound sense that some part of him that had been missing was here now, fitting perfectly into place. That sense of completeness invaded him from everywhere. From the feeling of Draco’s mouth moving tenderly on his, from Draco’s body pressed so solidly against him, filling his arms so perfectly. It was filling all the empty places inside him, easing out all his hurt, settling into him like a sigh, the rightness of this feeling soaking into him bone-deep.

Harry surrendered himself fully to this sensation, and to this kiss. He tightened his arms around Draco, feeling that these lips were as necessary against his own as the air he breathed. Then Draco’s tongue was teasing his lower lip, and Harry opened his mouth to that warm sweet invasion.

Draco finally pulled gently away, his nose brushing Harry’s with a tender caress. He kissed Harry softly again, then opened his eyes. “Oh God, Harry,” he whispered on a trembling breath.

Harry opened his eyes and their eyes met deeply for a very long moment. Draco’s eyes were liquid silver in the lamplight. Harry felt his face flush at the tenderness in those eyes, and he couldn’t look away, caught up by a sense of connection that made his pulse race. He lay back slowly, drawing Draco down with him.

Draco settled into the same position as before, lying against Harry’s side, his head on Harry’s shoulder. “Your move, Harry,” he said in a soft breathless voice. “I took your Bishop. You’re in check.”

Harry’s heart was pounding. _Check!?_ He could barely think. Draco’s touch, no matter how light, was like fire on his bare skin. He was aware of every place that they touched. Draco’s arm lay across him and Draco’s hand curved around his waist, Harry’s bare arms were wrapped around the satiny smoothness of Draco’s back. He felt the hand on his waist move, fingers trailing slowly upwards, leaving cool flames in their wake, as they lightly skimmed his ribs, gliding smoothly over his chest and up his neck, to at last tangle in his hair.

Harry closed his eyes and reveled in all the thousand feelings of Draco lying next to him. The impossible silkiness of skin on skin, the warmth that comforted and electrified all down the length of him, the whisper of breath against his neck, the pulse of a heartbeat against his side, the pressure of a hand, of a knee sliding up over his thigh, a foot curling under the calf of his leg. He had no idea where his chess pieces were, or what move to make next, and didn’t care. “I don’t want to move,” he whispered.

Harry reached up and let his fingers skim through Draco’s hair, then began to smooth that silky hair down, stroking it back behind Draco’s ear and down the back of his neck. “God, Draco,” he murmured after a few minutes, “I love your hair. It’s got to be the softest thing I‘ve ever touched.” He sighed and shifted his head so that his cheek was against the top of Draco’s head. “I hate my hair – it’s so awful.” He felt the fingers in his hair move and a muffled whisper against his throat.

“It’s not. _I_ like it. Your hair is soft too, and it’s cute, the way it sticks up sometimes.”

Harry felt his face flush at this very unexpected compliment. He let his fingers trail down Draco’s bare back to the top of his jeans and back up to his neck.

Draco nuzzled closer into his neck. “Still your turn, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “I can’t play chess like this,” he said very quietly. “I don’t know what to move.” He ran his fingers through Draco’s hair again. “If you want me to take my turn, I’ll have to get up and go look at the board.”

Draco tightened his hold on Harry. “No, don’t get up,” he said with a small shiver, as Harry’s fingers again trailed down and then back up his bare back. “Just take my Knight.”

“With what?” whispered Harry.

“Pawn to D6,” whispered Draco back. “Then you won’t be in check.”

Harry lay still, except for the idle movement of his hand that slowly stroked Draco’s hair and wandered up and down Draco’s back. Draco’s hand moved down to lie over his heart, fingers curved into the hollow of his throat. Lying here like this was the gentlest, most exquisite feeling he’d ever known. Harry realized suddenly that he didn’t need to look for complicated explanations for why he wanted to be with Draco. This feeling alone, simply and singly, was explanation enough.

“Pawn to D6,” said Harry finally. He took a deep breath. “You asked me why I want to be with you, and I said I couldn’t explain it. But maybe I can now – or a little anyway.” He paused again, it was important to get the wording right. Then he began speaking slowly, as if he were thinking it through as he spoke. “Being with you . . . like this . . . feels like something I’ve always wanted. I just never knew what it was until now. I don’t like being alone, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt that I truly belonged with anyone before. My aunt and uncle have always hated me because I’m a wizard, so all my life, I’ve been yelled at, made to live shut up in a cupboard, or half-starved. I don’t think I’d ever even been hugged until I came here. And,” he added very softly, “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

He continued slowly stroking up and down Draco’s back. “I really like this, Draco. I’m so sorry we fought all those years. I’m sorry I was so slow to understand what you – or maybe, both of us – were feeling.” Harry sighed as Draco moved his arm up to encircle Harry’s neck. “But I feel closer to you right now than I’ve ever felt with anyone in my life, because I think you understand what it’s like to feel alone too.” He paused again for a moment. “Being with you feels so right to me. It feels like we . . . belong together and . . . I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want – ”

Harry stopped talking as he realized that Draco had tensed up, and that the hold Draco had on his neck had tightened considerably. Then he felt a shudder run through the other boy, and Draco turned his face into Harry’s neck. Harry realized then, with a startling jolt, that Draco’s face was wet where it pressed against his skin, and that more hot tears were falling, trailing cool tracks down his neck. Harry realized this only a second before a sob that Draco had been trying to hold back broke from him in a strangled gasp. “Draco?” Harry whispered. _Oh God_. “What is it? Did I say something wrong?”

It was several moments before Harry heard the muffled answer to his question. “Not . . . wrong,” came the soft broken reply, “. . . so . . . right.”

* * * * * 

Draco lay in Harry’s arms. He could feel the steady pulse of Harry’s heartbeat under his hand and in the hollow of Harry’s throat. Harry was smoothing the hair down the back of his head, running his hand lightly up and down his bare back. It felt like heaven to be touched like that, and what was even more incredible, was that it was Harry, the one person he had so wanted, but believed he could never have, that was touching him like this, petting him, loving him. No one in his life had ever really touched him, much less like this. Draco was entranced, undone, and unprepared for the depth of his reaction to this touch, this embrace.

And Harry was saying things to him that touched him in an entirely different way, words that were finding a way through all his barriers, words that reached into him, seeped and trickled and poured like cool water into the bare, dry untouched places in his soul, filling him up until he would have to overflow with it. With each touch, each word, he found the walls crumbling, found himself moved beyond words, and found to his utter humiliation that his throat had closed up with ache, and he was perilously close to tears. He held it back for as long as he could, but Harry’s words, “ _It feels like we belong together . . . I don’t want to be alone any more_ ,” ripped the last stone from the walls.

Draco turned his face into Harry’s neck and let it come. There was nothing he could do to stop it. He was barely able to answer Harry’s question, and then he lay in Harry’s arms and cried. He could not in his life remember crying, but he did so now. Trembling with ache and embarrassment from the sobs he desperately fought to hold back, he clung to Harry and tears flooded out of him. All the hardened places in his heart that he had built to cope with the life he had at home had dissolved under Harry’s gentle caresses, Harry’s soft words and tender touch. Draco had no defenses left to hold back the torrent of hurt that poured through him and overflowed, seeking release.

How had he never known he wanted this, how desperately he had wanted this, craved it? He had hidden this even from himself. He knew he loved Harry, but until this moment, had not really understood why. Had it been this all along, that he had sensed in Harry a person who could give him this perfect combination of understanding, strength, and tenderness. It was only Harry who could stand up to him, giving back as good as he got, never backing down, facing him undaunted, his match in all things, and yet could also say “ _I can stand up to a lot worse than that from you, Malfoy_ ,” and mean it as a reassurance of his intention to weather Draco’s emotional storms. Only Harry would stay and knock at a door slammed in his face. Draco could not resist the kindness of heart this implied. Simple kindness was something Draco had never known. In Harry, he had found a deep well of kindness, and he wanted to drown in it, sink to the bottom of it, and never come up.

And Harry was still talking to him, saying words that Draco couldn’t quite catch, words that were soothing and comforting, and calmed him even though he didn’t understand. He began to relax, and the tears, and even the tight ache that filled his throat, finally subsided, and the sleep that he had held so long at bay stole up imperceptibly to claim him. His last conscious thought was of being held, so perfectly, in the place he most perfectly belonged. There was a quiet peacefulness in his heart that he could never have imagined feeling, and then he was lulled deeply asleep.

* * * * * 

Harry was taken completely by surprise when the tears started. It had frightened him more than a little at first, but he had held resolutely onto Draco, and murmured whatever soothing reassurances he could think of. Then Harry found he could sense the exhaustion in the other boy, and remembered that Draco had said earlier that he hadn’t slept, that he felt wrung out from all the things they had talked about. And Harry realized that he knew exactly what to do about that. He had been working with Madam Pomfrey since last year on wandless healing, and it was in this aspect of Magical Medicine that he had discovered his greatest talent, and the possibility of a future working in something he loved doing.

He lay still for a moment, concentrating inward, expanding his conscious awareness to include the force of magical energy that flowed through him, and surrounded him in an aura of power. This colored aura surrounded all wizards, but most were barely aware of it, and very few could actually see it. Harry had found, to his delight, that, if he concentrated in the right light, he was one of those few. And through long hours of private training with Madam Pomfrey, he had learned to consciously direct and use this energy for healing.

He concentrated now, tapping into the deep center of magic inside himself and sent that energy out through his hands as he gently ran his hands over Draco’s back. He murmured the words of a calming spell and then another to induce sleep, layering his voice with quiet reassurance. Almost immediately, he felt Draco begin to relax, and very soon, the tears stopped, and Harry felt that relaxation gradually deepen into sleep.

He continued to hold Draco for a while, even after he was certain the other boy was asleep, just so he could be with him a bit longer, savoring the sense of deep contentment he felt. There was a vibration he sensed in the air around them, a humming, almost as if a stringed instrument was playing a note too low to be heard, a note that could only be felt. It seemed to lace itself around and through them, weaving them together, until Harry felt that there were no boundaries between them, that he and the boy who lay in his arms were the same self.

It was while he was lying like this that he noticed the sparks. In the dimmed light where the curtains of the bed cast a shadow over them, and where Harry’s hands moved as he touched Draco, he left a trail of tiny golden sparkles, like tiny static electricity sparks, but these were definitely magical in origin. They hovered behind his hands for a moment, following his movements like tiny comet tails, casting small circles of dancing golden light over Draco’s pale skin, then fading away. He guessed they were an after-effect of the magic he’d been doing, though he’d never heard of anything like that in his study of magical energy auras. But then he didn’t expect to have learned everything yet – he’d definitely have to ask Madam Pomfrey about it.

Thinking of that reminded him of class tomorrow and of how late it must be tonight. He really had to get back to his room and get some sleep himself. It was so hard to leave, but Draco needed to sleep, and Harry didn’t want to stay uninvited. Finally, he eased away from Draco, being careful not to wake him, and stood up. He picked up his shirt and glasses and put them back on. He looked down on Draco as he finished buttoning his shirt.

Lying there, asleep, Draco looked devastatingly fragile, and heartbreakingly lovely. It was inconceivable that he had spent six years fighting with this person. A deep feeling of tenderness welled up in Harry, and he wished again that he could stay. For a brief moment, he considered getting Draco out of his jeans, to make him more comfortable, but immediately abandoned the idea, far too embarrassed to do it. He did gently tug the coverlet and blankets down from under Draco to cover him up. Draco stirred then, but Harry laid a hand on his shoulder, and he sighed deeply and settled.

Harry bent and gently brushed the blond fringe back from Draco’s forehead, then sighed himself. He stood up, uncertain if Draco would want his bed hangings closed, then decided to do it. At last, he picked up his shoes and crossed the room to stand by the chessboard. He studied the board for several minutes, then, still thinking, sat down in the chair and put his shoes on. When he was sure he was remembering the sequence correctly, he carefully made the four moves they had made during the evening, removing his Bishop and Draco’s Knight from the board. Finally, he picked up his backpack, withdrew his wand from the pocket on the side, and said the spell to put out the lamps. Then he pulled out his Invisibility Cloak, swirled it around him, and left the room.

He didn’t run this time, but walked quietly and deliberately back to his dormitory. He had a great deal to think about. He was discovering that he and Draco were alike in many ways, that they shared a great deal of common ground between them. But, he was also seeing that they were vastly different in their emotional natures, and was beginning to realize that even though Draco’s hostile behavior had changed, a relationship with him would always be full of emotional ups and downs. Draco was mercurial, the white-hot streak of lightning in a stormy sky that suddenly changed to warm gentle rain, and back again to storm.

But Harry felt some excitement about this. His own nature was more constant and even-tempered, needing some outside spark to stir him to life. And it had always been Draco, more than anyone else, who had stirred such depths and heights of feeling in him. Draco was spark and flame; Harry was the rock that was warmed and yet contained the fire and remained unburned. For Draco, Harry was the solid earth, strong, steady, and reassuring, grounding the lightning, drinking in the rain and in turn, blossoming.

Their differences balanced, enriched and centered them. Shining green fields meeting gray velvet skies. Harry had never felt a greater sense of wanting to belong with someone than he had felt tonight. So it was the beginning, this balance, this understanding growing between them, of something Harry wanted deeply.

There had been so much said tonight, so much still left to be said; things for which the words must be found, and things that must be said without words. Tonight he and Draco had shared themselves very intimately, and Harry knew that the closeness they had experienced together tonight would express itself very soon in a different kind of intimacy. He was now completely certain of two things. He was falling in love, and he was going to have to tell the truth about that something he had lied about, something very important, something that, at the time, he had not thought mattered.


	9. Part II — The Game — Chapter 9

  


_I love him too much_  
_What if he saw my whole existence_  
_Turning around a word, a smile, a touch?_

Lyrics from “Heaven Help My Heart” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

When Draco didn’t show up for breakfast, Harry began to get worried. He barely paid attention to Seamus’s attempts to tease him about how late he had gotten back to their room last night. All he could think about was to worry if he had done the spells wrong, or put Draco to sleep so deeply that he hadn’t woken up yet. Should he try to sneak up to Draco’s room to check on him? Finally, just when he, Ron, and Hermione were getting up to go to Potions class, and Harry was desperately trying to think of some excuse to get away from his friends so he could run up to Draco’s room, he saw Draco slip in the door. Draco grabbed a couple of muffins from the end of the Slytherin table, and immediately slipped back out again. He didn’t even glance in Harry’s direction. Harry felt a little less worried, at least the magic he had done last night hadn’t gone wrong, but still . . . _Why didn’t he look for me?_

Things were not any better in class. When Harry walked in, Draco was already in his seat, with his head bent over his Potions text. Draco didn’t look up, didn’t sneak a smile at him, or in any way acknowledge that Harry had walked in, though Harry could sense that the other boy was acutely aware of it. To anyone else, Draco must have looked as cool and unruffled as usual, but Harry could feel the effort he was making to keep up that façade. The tension he felt coming from Draco was palpable. Something was definitely wrong. Harry felt heartsick. What had happened? Things had been so good last night. But all he could do was sit down, try not to worry, and wait for class to be over, then find a way to catch Draco and talk to him.

Snape swept into the classroom, then stood, stern and ominous, at the front of the room, his arms crossed, surveying the students with deliberate contempt. He raked Harry with a particularly intense and menacing glare. Then he turned and looked straight at Draco, who was still resolutely gazing down at his book. “Can anyone explain the significance of the potion you were assigned to study last night?” said Snape, in his usual low condescending tone. No one moved. Everyone knew that Snape was asking Draco. But Draco didn’t answer, in fact, he seemed not to have heard the question at all, and silence stretched out for a long, long moment, before whispers started to creep around the edges of the room.

 _What is wrong with him_ , thought Harry. _He knows this_. Finally, Harry couldn’t take the tension any longer. He raised his hand, something he had never, ever, done before in this class.

Snape was frowning at Draco, but turned as the motion of Harry’s hand going up caught his eye. Then he looked dumbfounded. “Potter!?”

Harry knew that Snape was not calling on him, but had simply said his name from the sheer shock of seeing him raise his hand. But Harry answered the question anyway. At least he could take Snape’s attention off Draco, and let the other boy know that he had learned something from their talk last night. He carefully repeated the entire explanation Draco had given him. As he talked, Harry could see only one side of Draco’s face, and that only at an angle from the back, so he might be mistaken, but he thought he saw a hint of rose-pink creep over that pale skin. Harry could also see, from the corner of his eye, that Hermione and Ron were watching him with matching stunned expressions on their faces.

When Harry finished talking, Snape stared at him with narrowed eyes. His upper lip curled as if he had bitten off something distasteful. Then with a tone that sounded like acid was dripping from his mouth, Snape said, “Very impressive, Mr. Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor.” The Gryffindor side of the room erupted instantly in cheers and applause, which were quelled almost as instantly by a venomous black look from the professor.

The rest of the class dragged on for an eternity of worry for Harry. Even after his recitation, Draco never glanced back at him. For the entire period, Draco strictly confined himself to looking up at Snape and looking down to take notes, and Harry’s nerves were beginning to fray by the time Snape dismissed them. He packed up his stuff as quickly as he could. Now if he could just get out of the classroom fast enough to catch Draco in the hall before his next class . . . but the aisles were blocked by his classmates. He watched helplessly, as over the heads of his friends, he saw that one familiar blond head escape out the door. _Draco_ , he thought, _why are you doing this? What could have possibly gone wrong between last night and this morning?_

“Potter!” Snape’s sharp tone knifed through Harry’s thoughts. “ _You_ will remain after class.”

Harry swore under his breath. He motioned to Ron and Hermione to go on without him, waited until the classroom cleared, then walked to the front of the class and stood in front of Snape’s desk, feeling deeply aggravated.

Snape looked down on him, black eyes glittering. “So tell me, Potter,” he drawled, in his low sneering voice, “was it the kicking or the kissing that caused your dramatic turnaround in this class.”

Harry was suddenly furious. He needed to find Draco, not stand here being subjected to this ridiculous taunting. “Neither,” he said fiercely, looking Snape right in the eye. “It was having a better teacher.”

Snape drew in a sharp breath through his teeth with a hiss.

But Harry wasn’t finished, and he cut Snape off before the professor could say anything. “You have tormented me since the first day I came to this class,” he said. “You never cared if I learned anything. I think Draco taught me more in one day than you ever have, and the sad thing is, I might have actually liked this subject, if someone had helped me understand it.” He paused for a second, his eyes chips of emerald ice. “But you,” he continued, a bitter edge to his voice, “all you’ve ever done is waste my time.”

Snape sat down and said nothing. Harry stood for a moment, his hands clenching the straps of his bookbag, then he turned and started for the door.

“Potter!”

Harry froze halfway to the door, but he didn’t turn around, just waited with his back to Snape. God, he was going to get detention for sure after that.

“Do you really care about him?”

That was so far from what Harry had expected, he turned around to stare at the professor.

Snape fixed him with a caustic gaze. “Because if you don’t – If you hurt him – I swear I will make your life a living hell. Nothing I have done to you so far will even compare to what I will do to you if you hurt Draco Malfoy. That boy has been hurt enough. Why do you think I always stood up for him against you and the rest of those self-righteous, thoughtless Gryffindors you call friends? Do you have even the vaguest idea what he has been through?”

Harry’s anger drained from him. He closed his eyes for a moment. Draco’s avoidance of him this morning was becoming a deep pain in his heart. He wanted desperately to find him, and Snape’s words had just stabbed him to the quick, but Harry knew he would never catch up to the other boy now. He opened his eyes and returned Snape’s angry glare levelly. “Yes,” he said as calmly as he could manage, “I do know what he’s been through.” Harry set his books down on one of the tables and walked back to stand in front of Snape’s desk. “And I would sooner cut off my own arm than hurt him. I . . . ” _Oh, bloody hell_. He’d been about to say, _I’m falling in love with him_. But there was no way he was going to tell that to Snape. “I’m . . . quite serious about this,” he said instead, firmly. “I don’t intend to stop seeing him – no matter what you say.”

Snape stared at Harry in silence for some time before he finally spoke again. “I do not approve of it,” he said at last, coldly, “because I think you are both being incredibly stupid. You were better off hating each other. This idiotic liaison is an enormous risk for both of you.” The professor stood up, and slowly crossed his arms, wrapping his robes around himself. “I tried to talk some sense into Draco last night – talk him out of this insane fixation he has on you. But he said the same thing, and refuses to listen to reason. So just be warned. I _will_ be watching you.”

Harry looked down at the floor, more thrilled by what Snape had said about Draco not wanting to give him up, than he was concerned about Snape’s threats.

“If you really _do_ care about him,” continued Snape, in a very low threatening tone, “then keep him away from his father. Have you given _any_ thought to what Lucius would do to him if he finds out about this . . . this absurd affair?”

Harry looked up, startled, and met Snape’s intent gaze. He remembered Dumbledore’s warning. _But Draco is safe here at Hogwarts, isn’t he? And he isn’t going home again._ “What do you mean, ‘do to him?’” said Harry, very worried.

Snape eyed him with angry incredulity, as if Harry’s failure to grasp the seriousness of the situation was beyond belief. “I mean,” he snarled, “that Lucius Malfoy destroys everything that he touches. He would most certainly use Draco to get to you, and would not think twice about destroying his own son if Draco doesn’t live up to his expectations. Are you really so dense that you don’t you realize you are putting both your lives in danger? If you really care about him, you would stay the bloody hell away from him, Potter!”

Harry’s face went red, from insult, anger, and shame. He hadn’t thought about things that way at all. This was something he would have to talk to Draco about. But there was no way he could stay away from the other boy. He ached to be with him right now. And in spite of his nastiness, it was clear to Harry that Snape was saying these things because he actually cared about Draco, and in that, they had something unexpectedly in common. Harry choked back any retort. “May I go now, sir,” he said in a tightly controlled voice.

Snape leaned forward with his hands flat on his desk. “Just remember what I said,” he hissed.

Harry snatched up his books and fled the Potions classroom without saying another word. He walked sadly to Binns’ class. His preoccupation with Draco’s behavior this morning had put everything else out of his mind, and he felt anxious and frustrated. Now he would have to wait until after lunch to catch Draco. But he was not going to let the Slytherin give him the slip again. In fact, he felt as if he didn’t want to let him out of his sight again, ever.

He didn’t understand what was going on. He was sure Draco wasn’t angry, but. . . . Snape’s words came back to him, _“I tried to talk him out of this insane fixation he has on you.”_ That was yesterday. And yesterday Draco hadn’t listened. But what if Draco had reconsidered things this morning? Or what if it was something Harry had said last night? _Oh God. What if . . . arrrgh. This is pointless_ , he reminded himself. _There’s nothing I can do right now_. Whatever it was, he would just have to wait, and try not to go crazy from worry until he could talk to Draco himself.

Finally, after enduring what seemed like hours of agonizing torture thinly disguised as the magical mysteries of the seventeenth century, Harry made it to the Great Hall for lunch. His eyes went immediately to the Slytherin table, and to his relief, Draco was there. His relief was short-lived, however, because again Draco kept his eyes down, his expression a careful and deliberate picture of disdainful indifference. He was holding this morning’s Daily Prophet in one hand, reading as he ate. As Harry watched though, it became obvious, to him at least, that Draco was only pretending to read that paper, and was only toying with his food. This was so maddening.

Harry looked away from Draco long enough to dish up his lunch, and then proceeded to eat it as fast as he could swallow. When Draco got up, he was going to be ready. Ron favored him with a short puzzled look at the way he was eating, then turned back to his conversation with Hermione. Harry swallowed the last bite of his meal, and looked back at Draco.

As if he had been waiting for this, Draco slowly laid down his fork, then his paper. He stood up, and, for the first time that morning, glanced toward Harry, then turned and walked swiftly out of the Great Room. It had been a flicker of a glance, nothing more, his eyes never lifting up as high as Harry’s face.

But Harry got the message. He came immediately to his feet and with a mumbled, “I’m going for a walk,” directed at Ron and Hermione, walked out as quickly as he could. One of the main entrance doors was just swinging closed when Harry got to the entrance hall. As he rushed outside, he could see Draco’s blond-headed, black-robed figure making its way down the path that ran around the lake. Harry took off after him.

Draco finally stopped within the small copse of silver birch trees that grew where the path turned to run along the far side of the lake. He stood with his hand on one slender white tree trunk, his back to the path, seemingly gazing out at the cold steel-colored water. Harry, a bit breathless from his fast walk, caught up with him there.

* * * * * 

Hermione smiled as Harry mumbled something about taking a walk, and turned back to her lunch. Then she felt Ron stiffen beside her, and heard him suck in a breath like a hiss.

“Bloody hell! I knew it!” exclaimed Ron. “He’s gone after Malfoy again – just like he did the other day when they had that fight in the hall!” Ron stood up. He looked down at Hermione. “This time, I’m going to be there, to find out what’s going on.”

Hermione grabbed his arm. “Ron, wait.” She pulled him back. “Sit down. What are you talking about?”

Ron sat down reluctantly, craning his neck to watch Harry leave the Great Hall only a few moments after Draco. “It’s Harry,” he said impatiently. “Something’s going on with him and Malfoy. I just saw him follow that slimeball outside and I want to find out why.”

Hermione frowned at him. “Ron, I distinctly remember that Harry said they weren’t fighting, and if he wants to talk to Draco, I think he can manage that without your help.”

“Geez, Hermione, don’t call him that. And what could Harry possibly want to talk to _him_ about?”

“I imagine, quite a lot, actually.”

“WHAT!”

“Didn’t you notice the way they were looking at each other outside Potions class yesterday morning. They were grinning at each other – like there was some kind of joke between them – something they knew, but we didn’t. I think they’ve made peace with each other.” She shook her head at Ron’s aghast expression. “I mean, Draco has really changed, and if he wanted to make up with Harry for all the trouble he’s caused, I think they would have a lot to say to each other. And if that’s what’s going on, you need to stay out of it and not interfere.”

“Are you insane?” gasped Ron. “That’s really mental!” He cringed suddenly when her flashing eyes made him realize what he’d just said to her. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said in a rush. “But that git is not going to change. His whole family is rotten. I’m sure he’s up to something – some plot to get Harry in trouble.”

“Look, Ron,” said Hermione, the Head Girl Voice creeping into her tone, “he _has_ changed whether _you_ like it or not. I know because I’ve talked to him myself. He’s been very . . . helpful.” She been about to say something like _friendly_ or _nice_ , but those words weren’t right. They were too warm for Draco Malfoy. He’d been . . . well, maybe _civil_ was the right word, always cool and distant, but also now, unfailingly polite. He was so different, but somehow still the same. But he had definitely been helpful. In fact, Hermione acknowledged to herself, she was beginning to wish that Draco _had_ been made Head Boy instead of that Ravenclaw twit who acted all swelled up by the honor of it, but couldn’t be bothered with the responsibilities. Hermione was one of the very few who knew that Draco should have been given the honor in the first place, who knew that he deserved it.

Draco had a very logical and creative mind, and Hermione was starting to rely on his advice quite a bit. For example, late yesterday afternoon, she had gone to him with a problem, and he had been willing to talk with her for some time, helping her think through several possible solutions. He had a very nice room, too. It was quiet, unlike most of the rest of Hogwarts – it was a place where a person could actually sit and think. And he had had the prettiest chess set laid out on the table in front of the fire – 

_Hmm . . . chess . . ._ Someone had recently mentioned chess to her. Oh yes, it had been Ron talking about Harry – Suddenly Hermione gasped. Her hand flew up to cover her mouth for a second. _Oh my!_

Ron’s expression went from scowl to startled in a heartbeat. “What! What’s wrong?”

“I . . . um . . . it’s nothing,” said Hermione, thinking furiously. “I was just wondering . . . has Harry told you who he’s seeing yet?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Ron huffily. “And I don’t understand _that_ either.”

Hermione picked up her fork and poked absently at her food. _Could it be possible that Harry and Draco . . . Draco!? . . . had done more than just call a truce between them?_ “Tell me again, Ron,” she said hesitantly, “what did Harry say he had been doing . . . that first night he got back so late?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Playing chess with someone in another house. Then Seamus pointed out that he’d obviously been kissing someone, and he finally admitted he had been.”

“You’re sure . . . that they were . . . er . . . _oh God_ . . . kissing?”

“Oh yes,” said Ron, grinning. “Quite sure.” Ron laughed. “Ha, you should have seen him – shirt all unbuttoned, blushing. Then I asked him about it last night. ‘Spectacular’ was how Harry himself described it. Why? What are you on about, Hermione?”

“Well,” said Hermione slowly. “I did some checking yesterday, discreetly of course, but none of the prefects in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw saw Harry in their common room, or with anyone from their houses that night.”

“Good lord, Hermione! Are you telling me he’s seeing someone in Slytherin?”

“I’m not telling you anything, except that, if I’m right, Harry has a very good reason for keeping this relationship a secret, and you don’t need to be pestering him about it. Let him tell you when he’s ready.”

Ron looked at Hermione suspiciously. “You know, don’t you? You know who it is!”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione. Tell me. Why shouldn’t I know too? I just don’t want to see Harry get hurt again.”

Hermione sighed, and laid her hand affectionately on Ron’s arm. “Ron, I know your heart’s in the right place, but just because I may have figured it out, doesn’t mean I should tell you something that Harry wants kept secret. I’m sorry, but you really are going to have to hear this from him.” Hermione looked up thoughtfully, remembering all the stuff Harry had recited in Potions class that morning, then grinned slowly at Ron. “You know, it’s actually rather obvious, now that I know who it is.”

Ron frowned at her. “Well, you needn’t look so smug about it. Okay, I’ll wait and let him tell me, but this business with Malfoy is another story. He’s been gone long enough.” Ron stood up. “I’m going out there.”

“Ron, no. Wait.” Hermione tried to catch hold of his arm again, but he was too fast for her this time. She shook her head as she watched him stride purposefully out of the Great Hall. _I just hope you don’t walk in on anything you wish you hadn’t_. Then she started to laugh to herself, thinking of the scene in the hall yesterday. _No wonder they were looking at each other like that_ , she thought – _“my intentions do not even remotely resemble fighting” – that is just too funny_. Then she sobered and shook her head. _God, Harry, I do hope you know what you’re doing_.

* * * * * 

Harry stopped when he entered the small grove of silver birch, struck for a moment by the stark monochrome beauty of the scene before him. Draco had his back turned, his pale hair and black robe perfectly matched by the slender pale tree trunks and the delicate black branches that arched overhead and ascended into interlacing silhouettes against the gray sky. For a few seconds more, Harry hesitated, resolution warring with fear, but for him there really was no option. He had to know. So gathering his determination and courage, he stepped forward and came to stand just to the left and behind Draco. He could see now that Draco, though he appeared to be gazing out over the lake, was actually standing with his eyes closed. Harry’s heart sank when Draco didn’t turn to meet him. He wanted to touch the other boy but didn’t dare. “Draco?” he queried gently.

Draco swallowed, and tilted his face slightly away. “Harry.” The reply was tense, barely above a whisper.

Harry could feel the tension in Draco, as if one wrong word would shatter him like glass. The chill wind off the lake stirred his hair, but that was the only movement about him. He seemed to be barely breathing, waiting for that word that would break him apart, terrified of it and yet frozen in the tracks of its coming, unable to move away. “I missed you at breakfast,” said Harry finally, softly. “I’ve missed you all morning. I’ve been worried.”

“You should be pleased,” said Draco quietly. “Points for Gryffindor from Snape. That doesn’t happen every day.”

“I don’t care about that,” said Harry, stepping closer. “Those points should have been yours.” He paused to take a deep breath, then asked the next questions because he had to. “Draco, what’s wrong? Are you regretting what happened last night?”

The blond head dropped down a bit, then Draco shook his head slightly. The hand he had placed on the tree fell limply to his side, then he crossed his arms over his chest, a protective gesture. “Only that I made a complete fool of myself,” he murmured.

“Is that what you think?”

“Don’t you?”

“No,” said Harry gently, but firmly. “That’s _not_ what I think. And if you had looked at me even once this morning, you would have known that.”

“But you just left last night, without saying a word, not goodbye . . . or anything.”

Harry sighed inwardly with relief. _God, I should have realized he’d be embarrassed by what happened last night_ , he thought. His imagination had painted some far more serious explanations for Draco’s behavior. “I didn’t want to wake you,” he explained. “You needed to sleep.” Harry laid his hands very lightly on Draco’s shoulders. “And I didn’t just leave.” His thumbs began to rub small circles, kneading the tense muscles between Draco’s shoulder blades. “I stayed for a long time. I didn’t want to leave at all.”

Draco leaned back slightly into the soothing caress of those hands. “I woke up this morning and felt so . . . strange and confused, and . . . horribly embarrassed. I don’t cry, Harry. I can’t remember that I ever have. And I don’t usually fall asleep like that either.”

Harry could feel Draco’s body starting to relax, feel him letting go of the tension. He bent his head and kissed the nape of Draco’s neck. “So that was seventeen years’ worth in one go, then,” he said, leaning forward to kiss the curve of Draco’s ear, as he gently pulled the now unresisting Slytherin back against himself. “No wonder there was a flood.” Harry wrapped his arms around Draco and hugged him close. He felt Draco’s hands come up to grasp his wrists lightly, and he kissed that sweet tender spot just behind Draco’s ear. “And I put you to sleep,” he said very softly, closing his eyes, letting the wind tickle his face with Draco’s silky fine hair. “Do you have any idea how lovely you are when you’re asleep?”

Draco leaned back into Harry’s embrace, then turned his face to the side and rested his head against Harry’s. He was blushing slightly. “No,” he said gruffly. “How would I know something like that?” A moment later, he asked, “What do you mean you put me to sleep?”

Harry opened his eyes and looked past Draco, out over the lake. The water was slate gray with cold, the wind picking up little peaks of scudding icy foam. The reflection of the castle was shimmering, fragmenting into pieces, then becoming whole again in turns, as the image rippled on the surface of the water. Harry tightened his grip on Draco. “I’m a class-seven mediwizard,” he said, trying to sound casual, but knowing before he spoke that his voice would tremble with the seriousness of that statement. “No one but Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey know,” he continued softly. “I’m still in training – ”

Draco pulled abruptly away from Harry and turned to face him. His eyes were dark with emotion, storm-cloud gray, the color of the sky out over the lake. “You used magic on me without asking?” he demanded. Lightening flashed in those gray eyes.

Harry met Draco’s intense gaze evenly, contritely. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You said you were worn out. That you hadn’t slept. I only meant to make you feel better.”

Draco closed his eyes and was silent for a very long moment, his fleeting flash of anger giving way to the memory of Harry’s murmured words and how profoundly he had been touched by them. He remembered the shivery, thrilling gentleness and comfort of Harry’s hands softly stroking his bare skin, and the incredible soothing power with which those caresses had found his deepest pain and eased it, had calmed him and filled him with peace. “You did make me feel better,” he said finally, opening his eyes to meet Harry’s emerald gaze again, his gray eyes kindling now with awe. “It felt . . . amazing.” He held out his hand and when Harry took it, he turned Harry’s hand palm up in his own. “Is that what you said you don’t like to talk about? That you can heal with a touch, without a wand?” He laid his other hand lightly over Harry’s palm, stroking slowly down from the wrist to the tips of Harry’s fingers. “God, Harry. Do you know how rare that is?”

Harry felt his ears flush with heat. “Yes,” he said, quietly. “I’ve been told.” He pulled his hand away from Draco’s grasp and stepped forward, closing the gap that Draco’s step back had made between them. “Draco,” he said, as his arms encircled the other boy’s waist, his eyes never leaving Draco’s, “a few days ago, I couldn’t have imagined us together like this, but this morning, when you wouldn’t look at me . . . it really hurt.” He let his hands slide up Draco’s back, gently tightening his hold on the Slytherin. “I can’t fight with you now,” he said. “I can’t go back to the way things were between us before.”

“Harry,” said Draco seriously, slipping his arms around Harry’s neck, “I am way past being able to go back to what we were before.” He tossed his head slightly as the wind blew his hair into his eyes. “I’ve imagined us together like this a thousand times. I just never believed in it, that it could actually happen.” He laid his head down on his own upper arm, his face turned in against Harry’s neck, and was silent for a moment. Then he spoke again, very softly. “And I’m afraid,” he murmured, “that I’ll wake up . . . like this morning . . . and you’ll be gone, and it will have been nothing more than some pathetic dream.” He took a deep breath, exhaling in a long sigh. “This morning, I felt . . . so alone. I thought you had changed your mind.”

“Oh, Draco, no,” said Harry, stung by his own unintentional cruelty.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as afraid of anything as I was of that, and I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come out here after me. I know I don’t deserve you, Harry. I don’t know how you can trust me after everything I’ve done. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Not this easily.” Draco lifted his head and pulled back, the expression in his eyes solemn. “But, what you said last night, about us . . . that we belonged together . . . that meant . . . everything to me. I just never dared hope, before, that you would feel that way.”

Harry’s gaze searched deeply into Draco’s eyes. “I have thought a lot about whether I should trust you or not,” he said sincerely, “and I do now. As for not deserving my forgiveness . . . I never wanted to fight with you, or hate you. I just didn’t understand, and now that I do, those things don’t matter. It isn’t so much about forgiveness as it is about not letting the past ruin what we are starting now.” Harry reached up with one hand and brushed Draco’s hair away from his eyes. “What I want is for us to be together, more than anything. Will you trust _me_ enough to believe that?”

Draco closed his eyes at Harry’s light touch on his face, then nodded. “I want to, Harry,” he said quietly. “I’m just not used to . . . being forgiven.” He looked back up and met Harry’s emerald gaze, his eyes the color of morning rain.

“I meant everything I said last night,” said Harry, in a voice both soft and serious. “Nothing has changed this morning.” He paused, then added gently, “Do you really think I’m the kind of person who could be with you like that last night, then have it mean nothing this morning?”

“No,” said Draco, a half-embarrassed, half-apologetic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Then Harry saw a shy look steal into Draco’s eyes. It was a look he found enormously endearing.

“It’s not you,” said Draco softly. “It’s more like I’m having trouble believing I’m the kind of person who could be so lucky – to have been with you like that last night, and still have you this morning.”

“Oh,” murmured Harry, leaning in to press a soft kiss next to that adorably curving corner of Draco’s mouth. “You so have me this morning,” he said, breathing the words across Draco’s cheek.

Draco smiled then, and Harry kissed him on the mouth, smile and all.

Harry took his time with this kiss, letting the certainty of what he was beginning to feel express itself, exploring the rightness he felt with this person in so many facets, in body, mind and heart, wanting, needing to belong to this person. He felt Draco give in to him, trembling, finally relaxing, melting into him, Draco’s quickened breath mingling with his own, feathering panting waves of warmth over his face, fingers tangling gently in his hair, responding with the same certainty of feeling, the same need to belong, to be his. There was a new depth in this kiss, of bridges crossed and foundations solid underfoot, a commitment made, understanding sure. They were together, belonged together, now. And it felt so good. Harry broke the kiss, because he couldn’t help smiling.

Draco pulled back a little so he could look in Harry’s eyes, and burst out laughing. Harry’s glasses were all steamed up.

Harry laughed too and pulled them off.

Draco’s eyes were shining, the sun coming out from behind the rain. “But promise me something, Harry,” he said, smiling again.

“What’s that?” asked Harry, his heart turning over at that smile.

“If you ever do that magic spell to put me to sleep again, let me brush my teeth first. My mouth tasted like the floor of the owlry when I woke up.”

Harry grinned at him, then leaned in to kiss him again. “Doesn’t now,” he murmured.

“You’re sure?” asked Draco, grinning too and kissing back.

“Very sure,” said Harry, with a laugh.

“Good,” said Draco, and he pulled Harry into a deep kiss.

Draco held on to Harry tightly, as if he didn’t want to ever let go, and Harry felt the physical need that was growing between them surge through him with a thrilling tremor, a need to be closer than a kiss. Their first kisses, even just touching each other, had been so intense, so new, that that alone had been enough. But now . . . The intensity of this kiss grew to an urgency that they both felt. Harry clung to Draco as if they could dissolve into each other, forgetting where he was, his world collapsed to this moment, this kiss, this desire that was scorching all rational thought from his mind.

And then memory poured a bucket of ice water over his head. _Oh God_. The lie Harry had told suddenly loomed up to haunt him. He felt it like a cold knot in his gut. Draco had been so unfailingly honest with him, and he wanted nothing to come between them, no cold accusing ghosts to rise up between them from his past. And maybe now, too, for the first time, he was ready to talk to someone about what had happened. He had to tell Draco the truth. Harry broke the kiss as gently as he could. “Draco,” he whispered. “There’s something I have to tell you – ”

“Right now?” came the whispered reply against Harry’s mouth, as Draco’s lips refused to be separated from his.

“Yes. Mmmm.” Harry surrendered to another kiss, then tried again. “Draco, this is important.”

Draco pulled away just enough to look into Harry’s eyes, a hint of worry in his gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“No, oh no,” said Harry. “Nothing like that – it’s just there’s something I should have told you before, but I didn’t want to, and now – ”

Draco nodded, studying Harry seriously, expectantly. “Go on then . . . ”

“Well, it’s about what I told you the other morning in the hall, when you asked if I was a – ”

“HAR-RY!” The shouted call came from a short distance away.

Harry and Draco both turned, startled. Harry fumbled for a moment to get his glasses back on. Ron was headed toward them at a fast pace, and was now almost completely around the lake, but not quite close enough to see them clearly where they stood among the trees. They pulled reluctantly apart.

“Damn,” Harry swore under his breath.

“Hmm,” said Draco, watching Ron’s rapidly approaching figure with narrowed eyes. “It seems your devoted shadow has tracked you down at last.”

Harry looked at Draco. “Sorry,” he said.

“Had to happen sooner or later,” responded Draco as he straightened his robes and smoothed his hair back. His features shifted into an expression of unruffled disdain, and he crossed his arms over his chest, the old well-known, annoyingly-cool, Draco-Malfoy-is-an-infuriating-git persona falling perfectly into place again.

Harry watched the transformation with dismay, and suddenly he experienced a panicked moment of doubt. Had he been wrong to think that Draco had changed? Was it only that Draco’s allegiance to his father had changed, and with that Draco had made calculated changes in his behavior in order to further his new interests and priorities? Had he allowed Harry, and Dumbledore, to see something different, because he wanted or needed them to? But maybe he hadn’t really changed?

Draco turned from watching Ron to look back at Harry, and their eyes met.

And Harry’s breath caught slightly then, at what he saw in Draco’s eyes. Oh, the facial expression and the stance and the mannerisms might be the old Draco, but the eyes were not. Harry felt his heart leap up with elation – for the eyes that had always looked back at him before from that face had been sullen, angry, or hurt. Now they were warm, confident, and far from indifferent. Realization hit. That was the real and only change – the hurt and anger were gone. The old Draco was still very much there, just as the boy that Harry was beginning to love had always been there too, hidden behind that cool indifference, a side of himself that Draco rarely let anyone see, a part he would consider profoundly private. Draco had taken a chance and allowed Harry to see more deeply into him, to the parts of him that were vulnerable and insecure. But for everyone else, that private side would probably remain more or less hidden. Harry doubted that Draco would ever let Ron see it. _Draco Malfoy, Master of Illusion_ , he thought. _I hope I do know what is the real you_.

“There’s something I have to tell _you_ , Harry,” Draco was saying. “Now, before he gets here. Do you remember those girls who wanted to go to the Yule Ball with us?” He paused, taking in the abstracted expression on Harry’s face. “Harry, are you listening?”

“Yes,” said Harry, grinning, amused to find that he was quite looking forward to seeing how Draco was going to act with Ron.

“At lunch today,” Draco went on, “I overheard one of them, the blonde one, say that she was planning to try to catch you after your Quidditch practice this afternoon. I guess they’re tired of trying to talk to me. Anyway, I just wanted to warn you to stay away from her – ”

“Harry!” Ron stepped between the trees and confronted Harry and Draco. “There you are.” He frowned at Draco. “Malfoy,” he said. “What’s going on? What are you up to?”

Draco raised one eyebrow at the implied insinuation, then looked pointedly at Harry. “Just admiring the view, Weasley,” he said, unable to stop himself from grinning when Harry blushed slightly. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Looking for Harry. And don’t try to play that innocent stuff with me,” retorted Ron. “I heard what you were saying. Who are you warning Harry to stay away from?”

Draco flipped his hair back with one small elegant toss of his head. “Just some girl who wants to go out with him.”

“And what’s it to you if Harry does go out with her?” said Ron with a scowl.

“Well,” said Draco, his voice slipping into that infuriating drawl, “let’s just say I wouldn’t like it very much. Actually, I wouldn’t like it at all. In _fact_ , I’d be horribly upset and angry. And then things just might get messy – particularly under the astronomy tower.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

Ron was too angry to notice. “That’s just too bad, Malfoy! I don’t see how you have anything to say about it. Harry can go out with anyone he wants to!”

“Oh?” said Draco, archly. “Is that so?” He was trying not to laugh too. “I’m going to remember you said that, Weasley, since I happen to know who he’s been seeing, and I know _you_ won’t like it.”

Ron turned angrily to Harry. “Harry? How come _he_ gets to know who you’re seeing, when you won’t even tell your friends?”

Harry was valiantly trying stop laughing; he really didn’t want to tease Ron. Well, maybe just a little . . . “Because he was there,” he said.

Ron looked at Harry and then at Draco with a scowl. Then his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “I see what’s going on here.”

Draco and Harry exchanged startled glances, and waited in amused suspenseful silence for Ron to continue.

“You two are fighting over the same girl!” Ron pronounced finally, his face turning red. “Harry, I can’t believe you would get involved with some girl in this git’s harem!”

“My _what!?_ ” Draco stared at Ron in disbelief for a second, then turned to Harry. “Good God! Does the whole school think I’m shagging anything in a skirt?”

Harry had to laugh at Draco now – he was the picture of outrage and disgust. “Well,” said Harry, with an apologetic grin when he could talk, “it’s more like everyone knows that anything in a skirt wants to shag you, and no one imagines you’re turning them down.”

Draco seemed to mull this over for a second, then he gave Harry a sly look. “Lord, are they ever in for a surprise,” he said in a low undertone only Harry could hear.

“Harry, you know the reputation he has,” continued Ron fiercely, ignoring Draco, but annoyed that he couldn’t hear what he was saying to Harry. “Have you gone completely mental, fighting with him over a girl he’s probably already slept with?”

Harry and Draco both turned to glare at Ron, then Harry shook his head, forcing himself for a moment to be serious for his roommate’s sake. “Ron, honestly. We are not fighting about anything. We were just . . . talking. And I don’t want you to take this the wrong way . . . I mean, I really appreciate you coming out here to check on me and all, but I can handle Draco just fine by myself.”

There was a badly suppressed snicker at this from the Slytherin.

Ron turned to Draco, angry challenge in his eyes. “So you think that’s funny, do you? Well, Harry could take you any day . . . with . . . with one hand tied behind his back!”

“Oh right, Weasley,” countered Draco without missing a beat. “And what would be the fun in that?” He turned to Harry with a devilish grin. “I’d like it so much better if he used _both_ hands.”

Harry choked and turned beet red. “Okay, that’s enough!” he said. “Stop it, both of you.” Harry looked at Draco and sighed. “I think . . . I need to tell him.”

Draco raised one eyebrow, studying Harry for a moment in silence. Then he gave Harry a small nod. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked quietly.

Harry shook his head slightly, his eyes sending back an apologetic thank you.

“Tell me what?” demanded Ron.

Draco ignored him and stepped very close to Harry. “That conversation we were having earlier is not over,” he said softly.

“I know it’s not,” said Harry.

Gray eyes met green in an unspoken agreement of when and where. “Good luck,” said Draco under his breath, tilting his head a bit toward Ron.

Harry nodded. He wanted to kiss Draco, or if not that, at least to touch him somehow in parting, and for a moment that need for contact was almost overwhelming. It was out of the question, though, with Ron standing there watching. But Draco seemed to feel it too, and managed to slip his fingers into Harry’s hand for a second, hidden by their robes. Harry gave those fingers a quick squeeze before they slid away.

Draco turned to Ron with a taunting half-sneer, half-smile. “Hope you don’t have any history of heart failure in your family, Weasley,” he said coolly. Then he stepped closer to Ron and met his eyes. “And,” he said in a low stern voice, the barest hint of threat in the tone, “now we find out if you meant what you said a bit ago – about Harry going out with anyone he wants to.” He turned and gave Harry one last supportive glance before he walked away.

Ron stared after him for a few minutes, then turned to Harry. “God, Harry, that guy really creeps me out. Did you see the way he was looking at you? I don’t think you should be alone with him. It’s obvious he’s plotting something.” He stopped, finally noticing Harry’s aggrieved expression. “What?”

Harry had no idea how he was going to start explaining this. But he had to try. “I really wish you wouldn’t talk about him like that, Ron. Things are . . . different now.” Harry thought back over the words the three of them had just exchanged. Draco had only teased Ron, maybe a little severely, but it had been just teasing, no angry insults had been thrown back, even when Ron had insulted him. “ _He’s_ different now,” said Harry firmly.

“Oh, Harry,” moaned Ron. “Not you too. Hermione is on about the same thing. But I’m not buying it. I don’t see any difference, and I don’t trust him at all.”

Harry sighed. “Ron, stop and think for a minute. Can you name anything he’s done to bother us this whole year?”

Ron shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. For all I know, he’s just saving up for something big. I _can’t_ trust him. And you shouldn’t either.”

“But I do now,” said Harry earnestly. “Since that day I had to go to Dumbledore’s office with him, I’ve been talking to him – actually, I’ve been spending a lot of time with him.” Harry paused and took a deep breath. “I really like him now. I like him a lot.”

This was too much for Ron. “Gah, Harry, how can you say that? This is Malfoy we’re talking about! Are you forgetting what a mean, spiteful, Muggle-hating, stuck-up git he is? Are you forgetting all the rotten stuff he’s done to us?”

“Yes!” said Harry, losing patience. “I’m trying very hard to forget those things – because there’s a lot I understand about him now, that I didn’t before, and I can’t blame him so much for acting the way he did. He’s asking me for a second chance, and I intend to give it to him.”

“Well, I don’t!”

“You haven’t even talked to him!”

“And I’m not going to!” They stood glaring at each other, both angry now, then Ron went on. “Harry, I don’t understand this at all. Most of all, I don’t understand why you won’t tell me who you’re seeing, but that slimy git knows!”

“I _am_ telling you, Ron!” said Harry, completely exasperated with his stubborn-headed best friend. “You’re just not listening! And I didn’t tell you before this, because Draco is right. You won’t like it!”

“Draco! God, Harry, I don’t like _that_. And as for not liking who you’re seeing, that’s crazy. If you’re that serious about someone, I’ll have to like them.”

“Ron, that’s . . . crap! Are you even listening to yourself? I just told you that I really like Draco, and you certainly didn’t decide to like _him_ – you just now called him a slimy git!”

“That’s different – that was Malfoy – ”

“No, it isn’t different! Don’t you get it? It’s exactly the same. And if you can’t accept that I want to be _friends_ with Draco, then there’s no point in me telling you who I’m seeing!”

Harry and Ron stared at each other for several seconds. They’d practically been yelling at each other. This was not going well. Harry felt that he’d probably better let it drop for now. Besides, it was quite cold out and now that he was no longer snuggling up to Draco, the chill wind off the lake was making him shiver. “Come on,” he said in a resigned tone. “I don’t want to fight with you over this. We’d better go back anyway. It’s nearly time for class.”

They were silent on the walk back around the lake, both locked in their own thoughts, and each sorry for being angry at the other. Finally, as they were walking up the steps to the entrance doors, Ron spoke up quietly. “Harry, wait. Just tell me one thing. Hermione thinks you’re seeing a Slytherin.”

Harry sighed. “When is Hermione ever wrong?”

“It’s true then.”

“Yes.”

“God, Harry.”

Harry stopped just outside the doors and turned to face his roommate. “I’m falling in love, Ron,” he said softly, “and I’m happy about it. I wish you would try to be happy for me.”

Ron looked stung, then hung his head. “I’m sorry, Harry. I just can’t picture you with any of them.” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes with apology and resolution in his blue eyes. “But I will try.” He paused, then added, “Will you tell me now, who it is?”

“There’s only one person I’ve been spending time with, Ron,” said Harry pointedly. “I’ve already told you who it was.”

“But,” said Ron, obviously confused, “when?”

Harry just shook his head. “Never mind about it now,” he said, pulling one of the doors open and stepping inside. “We have to get to class. I’m sure it will come to you.” _Like a Bludger to the head_ , he thought, feeling annoyed that this should have to be so complicated. _Why couldn’t I have gotten involved with some nice quiet Hufflepuff girl? Oh God. I did not just think that. Arrrgh_.

* * * * * 

Later that afternoon, Draco was sitting in his window watching the Gryffindor team practice. Several times now, he had raised his eyebrows in surprise. Harry had his team practicing some new maneuvers that were quite creative. Those moves were definitely going to confound an opposing team. He smirked to himself. Too bad he wasn’t planning to play for Slytherin anymore. Too bad no one would be telling them about this.

Suddenly a shadow darkened the window. Draco leaped down out of the way as one of the seemingly countless and indistinguishably similar Malfoy house owls flew into his window carrying a small packet. _Ah_ , he thought, _this is either something too insignificant to bother Lucifer with . . . or too important to call attention to by using Father’s personal owl_. He took the packet, shooed the owl out, and closed the window. It was an oddly lumpy packet. Draco turned it over in his hands as he carried it to his desk. Then, his heart rate quickened. Maybe, finally . . .

Carefully, he opened one side of the paper packet and upended it over his hand. A small silver object tumbled out to lie gleaming on his palm. Emerald eyes glittered up at him, sparkling greenish-gold in the lamplight. Draco looked inside the packet and saw nothing else. He was a little surprised that there was no message enclosed. He opened the packet all the way and pulled the two sheets of paper apart to look at the facing sides. Nothing. He shrugged slightly and tossed the papers to one side of his desktop, then took the ring, for that is what it was, and went to sit in the chair by the fire.

Draco turned the ring slowly round and around, a small beguiled, yet calculating smile playing over his lips, as he watched the reflected firelight spark amber and scarlet highlights off the polished metal. He had always been fascinated by the elegant artistry of this ring’s design. It was almost delicate, so finely detailed, a perfectly carved silver dragon that curled around into a circle, holding the coiled tip of its tail between its teeth. Filigreed wings lay along its back, each scale and claw of body and foot masterfully defined, and the eyes were set with emeralds. This ring was one of his most treasured possessions. Soon it would belong to Harry.

A thrilling shiver went through him at the thought. He looked up and gazed into the fire, remembering the events of the morning. He had been so sure, this morning, that he had ruined everything that he’d barely been able to bring himself to go down to breakfast or attend class. He had almost come apart listening to Harry’s recitation in Potions class, straining to hear the mocking tone that he was certain would be there, and when it wasn’t, and Harry had instead spoken with quiet pride in what Draco had told him, Draco had felt horribly close to tears again. But that had given him a bit of hope and courage, and by lunchtime, he had finally pulled himself together enough to face talking to Harry.

Draco closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, smiling. _Oh God. Harry_. Draco had felt ready to fall into pieces as he stood by the lake waiting for Harry to catch up to him, waiting as if his whole life turned around the words that Harry would say. But instead of the scorn that Draco so expected, Harry had dismissed his fears, had touched him, held him and kissed him, had filled his anxious heart with confidence and reassurance, and had healed the brokenness he felt inside so completely, so skillfully and effortlessly, that it was both breathtaking and frightening at the same time.

Harry had said, _“You so have me this morning,”_ and Draco had known, with a certainty he rarely experienced when it came to trusting and believing another’s words, that this was true. Then Harry had kissed him, had said with eyes and lips and arms and breath, _I am yours_ , and from that moment Draco knew he belonged totally to Harry, and Harry to him, no hesitation, no past, no more doubts. And then, oh God, that second kiss . . . Draco hugged his arms around himself. He wanted all of Harry, and wanted to give all of himself. _Tonight_ , he thought with another shivery thrill, _tonight, I plan to do just that._

He remembered that Harry had wanted to tell him something – he would find that out tonight too – and he gave a brief passing thought to Ron Weasley, wondering how Harry’s talk with the omnipresent redhead had gone. He almost wished that Harry had wanted him to stay. The look on Weasley’s face when he found out would have been something to see. But he didn’t really care what Weasley thought, as long as he could be trusted to keep their secret and be discreet. What mattered was Harry. And the plans Draco had made.

Yes, he planned to give Harry everything. He brought his attention back to the ring he held. All that he had, his life, and all the things he treasured most, he would give, including this ring. But not, he smiled to himself, as the ring was now. The emerald eyes, of course, reminded him of Harry’s eyes, but somehow they were not right if this ring was to belong to Harry. They would seem a poor imitation at best, and cheapen the beauty of the ring by comparison. And the green and silver were Slytherin colors, completely unacceptable for Harry. So, he would have to change the eyes.

He looked up in thought and caught sight of the small dragon Knights of the chess set. One pale appraising eyebrow went up. Ruby eyes? Yes. Perfect. Red for Gryffindor. All he needed then was a transfiguration spell – emerald to ruby. He pocketed the ring as he stood, then headed for the library. A spell like that shouldn’t be too hard to find.

* * * * * 

Quidditch practice had gone very well that afternoon. Harry was very proud of this year’s Gryffindor team. They had tried several new secret maneuvers that he was sure would help them win the House Cup this year. He was walking back to the locker room chatting animatedly with Seamus about their chances when a petite girl with long, dark blonde hair fell into step beside him. She was wearing school robes with the Slytherin crest. _Oh, bloody hell_. He had completely forgotten Draco’s warning.

“Hello, Harry,” said the girl, smiling up at him. “May I speak with you for a minute? Alone?”

Harry came to a dazed stop in the middle of the path. “Um,” he said, blushing furiously. He turned to look at Seamus, to make sure the other boy didn’t leave, but Seamus was already backing away, a huge grin on his face.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” he said, teasingly. “I know when I’m not wanted.” Then he turned and ran back toward the Quidditch pitch.

Harry turned back to the Slytherin, ready to make some excuse and then try to bolt in the opposite direction, but she laid a hand on his arm, and he was too polite to go through with it. He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

* * * * * 

Ron was just walking down from the stands when Seamus came tearing back onto the Quidditch field waving madly. Ron hadn’t walked back with Harry and Seamus in the first place because he was put out with Harry because Hermione was put out with him. He’d related his conversation with Harry at the lake to her that afternoon and she had called him a – well . . . Ron winced . . . it just didn’t bear repeating what she had called him. He didn’t understand it at all. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to talk to Seamus right now either. But Seamus was urgently motioning him to hurry and curiosity finally made him quicken his step.

“Ron!” said Seamus, out of breath, when they were in speaking distance. “Come on, will you! You have to see this! It’s Harry – he’s talking to a girl. I think it might be _the_ girl.”

Ron eyed him warily. “Is she a Slytherin?”

Seamus’s eyes got wider. “Yes! How’d you know that?” He took hold of Ron’s arm and started to pull him toward the locker rooms. “Come on! You should have seen him when she walked up. He turned bright red.”

Ron grinned, his annoyance forgotten. _Ha!_ he thought, as he took off after Seamus. _We’ve got you now, Harry!_

The two boys pelted down the path, then skidded to a halt at a point where they could see Harry standing with the girl, but not close enough to attract Harry’s attention. Sure enough, Ron saw that Harry was talking to a very pretty sixth-year Slytherin girl. _Aha! Harry had said she was pretty_.

She had her hand on his arm and he was bending down toward her to hear what she was saying, because she was talking very softly. Ron couldn’t even hear the sound of her voice, but Harry was smiling at what she was saying, first nodding, and then laughing. _And he had said she was funny_. Harry said something back in a very low voice and she smiled.

Seamus and Ron exchanged conspiratorial glances and nodded. They continued to watch as a few more words were spoken, then the two split apart, the girl heading toward the castle, Harry toward the locker rooms. They heard Harry laughing again as he walked.

“I’d better go get changed, too,” whispered Seamus, “but I won’t say anything yet. We’ll get him at dinner.”

“Right,” whispered Ron back. He thumped Seamus on the back. “Oh, well done. He won’t be able to weasel out of telling us this time!”

* * * * * 

Draco rushed back up to his room carrying a small dusty library book. It had taken him much longer than he had anticipated to find anything on gem transfiguration. And the spell itself was more complicated than he had expected. There was no time now for him to do anything before dinner but hide the book and the ring in his desk drawer. He would have to make time tomorrow to be alone, so he could work the spell.

He stood still for a moment looking around the room. Everything was in order. He glanced over at the chessboard and grinned. Oh, he had such plans for tonight! One involved a certain box in his wardrobe . . . and the other . . . well, Harry had told him that morning that he hadn’t wanted to leave last night, and Draco was fervently hoping that he _would_ stay all night tonight. His second plan depended on it.

He walked to the door and was about to go out, when he had a sudden chilling thought. He rushed to the bathroom, opened his medicine cabinet and took out the jar of blue potion. If Harry spent the night, he might open the cabinet, and Draco could not let Harry see this. He took the jar of potion and hid it in the back of the top cupboard of his wardrobe, then with a deep breath and one last look around the room, he went down to dinner.

* * * * * 

Harry showered and dressed in the locker rooms so that he could go straight to Draco’s room after dinner. He’d even brought a few overnight items, conveniently shrunk and concealed, just in case he didn’t go back to his dorm tonight. It was finally Friday night, so they wouldn’t have to do homework, and would be able to spend the whole evening together – or maybe, he hoped, the whole night. He walked back to the castle with Seamus in high spirits, deliberately ignoring the other boy’s sly, knowing glances. Harry had a pretty good idea what Seamus thought he knew, and was enormously amused, but he had no intention of letting Seamus know that.

When they entered the Great Hall, Harry saw, to his surprise, that they were late, that dinner was almost over. Evidently, he’d taken longer to shower and get ready than he had thought. Most of the students had already left, or were getting up to leave now. He and Seamus took seats across from Hermione and Ron at the nearly deserted Gryffindor table. Ron had one arm around Hermione and was whispering something to her as they sat down.

Hermione gave Ron a brief exasperated look, then shook her head. “You’re not even warm,” she said. Then she turned and smiled knowingly at Harry, who was sitting directly across from her. “Harry,” she said, nodding at Ron and Seamus, “these two busybodies think they have figured out your secret, even though _one_ of them specifically promised me that he would _not_ pester you about it.”

“But I can’t help it if we saw him, Hermione,” protested Ron.

“Saw me what?” asked Harry unconcerned, as he dished up his dinner. He allowed himself a swift glance over at the Slytherin table. He was glad to see Draco was still there, and to see that the other boy was actually eating this time.

“We saw you talking to that Slytherin girl,” said Seamus. “Out by the locker rooms. Come on, Harry, give it up. Isn’t that who you’ve been seeing?”

Harry laughed. “Oh, you mean Natalia? No, she’s just my date for the Yule Ball. I’m not interested in her.”

“Told you so,” said Hermione smugly to Ron.

Ron and Seamus exchanged equally silly stunned expressions. “Your . . . date?” squeaked Seamus. “But, if she’s _not_ the one you’ve been seeing . . . Harry, are you crazy?”

Harry only shrugged.

“That’s mental!” said Ron, shaking himself out of his momentary shock. “After what you told me this afternoon – you’re taking someone _else_ to the Ball?”

“Well,” said Harry, with an air of feigned innocence, “actually, I’m hoping to go with both of them.”

Ron and Seamus both stared at him dumbfounded.

“Harry,” said Ron finally, as if he were explaining the most obvious thing to a small child, “you can’t take your girlfriend to the Yule Ball along with another girl.”

Harry took a bite out of a chicken leg. “I don’t have a ‘girlfriend,’” he said.

“What are you talking about?” sputtered Ron. “You told me you were serious – falling in love!”

“And I am. I’m just objecting to the term ‘girlfriend.’ You’re jumping to conclusions that aren’t . . . er . . . accurate.”

Seamus rolled his eyes at Harry. “Okay, so you haven’t known her long enough to call her your girlfriend – you still can’t take two girls to the Yule Ball! Don’t you think she’s going to be mad when she finds out that you’ve been kissing her and then asking someone else to the Ball. You’re going to mess it all up before you even get to say _girlfriend_.”

Actually, Harry thought, Draco probably _was_ going to be angry. But Harry hoped he could talk Draco into it. After all, Draco hadn’t listened to the girls’ plan, and even Harry had to admit it was perfect. Leave it to Slytherins to come up with something like that – surely Draco would appreciate it once he knew. “Well, first of all,” said Harry to Seamus, grinning, “Natalia asked _me_ to the Ball. And as for the other thing, I’ll take my chances.”

Harry picked up his glass of pumpkin juice and was just taking a swallow when his eyes connected with Hermione’s over the rim. She had that I-know-the-answer-look in her eyes. Harry raised his eyebrows and lowered the glass. _Draco_ , she mouthed at him. Harry nearly sprayed his mouthful of juice across the table.

Seamus, at that very moment, and unaware of this exchange, suddenly grinned and said, “Or maybe, it’s the word _girl_ -friend that’s bothering you, Harry. Maybe it’s a _boy_ -friend you’ve got.”

Harry, still trying to deal with a mouthful of juice, gasped for air, swallowed the wrong way, and was seized by a fit of coughing.

Ron glared at Seamus. “Oh, for God’s sake, Seamus, that was a bloody awful thing to say. Look what you did to him.”

Seamus pounded Harry several times on the back. “Are you okay, Harry?”

Harry nodded mutely as the coughing subsided. He looked back at Hermione. _How the hell did she figure that out?_ She had her hand over her mouth and was watching him with mixed concern and hilarity in her eyes. He was sure she was only restraining herself from laughing at him because she was afraid he might actually choke. He glanced away at the Slytherin table and saw to his horror that it looked like Draco was about to leap from his seat and rush over. He quickly shook his head slightly, and saw to his relief that Draco relaxed.

Meanwhile, Ron and Seamus had gotten into an argument about Seamus’s boyfriend comment. “I was just teasing him back for teasing _us!_ ” Seamus was saying hotly. “And I don’t see what was so bloody awful about it. There’s nothing wrong with boys liking boys.”

“Well, Harry’s not like that,” protested Ron.

“And why not Harry?” retorted Seamus. “I was just joking before, but now that I think about it, he’s never referred to this person as ‘she.’ And another thing – if it _is_ a girl, she must be an aggressive lot like I’ve never seen. I mean, Harry came back with his shirt all unbuttoned – the first night they were together! If you ask me, that bloody well sounds more like a boy!”

Harry dropped his head in his hands, mostly to keep himself from laughing at Seamus’s unerring perceptiveness, but also because he felt rather guilty. Teasing them had been fun, but he certainly hadn’t meant to start a fight. And, he acknowledged, he really didn’t enjoy keeping secrets from his friends. He took a couple of deep, calming breaths. _Maybe I should just tell them now_ , he thought. He listened to another round of “It’s not!” – “And why not?” and thought, _I’m going to have to tell them now_. He took one more deep breath. _Right, I’ll just tell them straight out_.

“Okay, enough!” Hermione’s voice broke through the argument. “You guys, leave him alone, will you? If he wants to have a bit of privacy for a change, why is it so hard for you two to understand that?”

Harry lifted his head in the ensuing silence and looked gratefully at Hermione.

“Sorry, Harry,” muttered both Ron and Seamus. They were still frowning at each other.

A reluctant silent truce settled over the group as they continued with their meal. Harry saw Draco get up and leave the Great Hall, but kept his eyes from following him. He finished his dinner as quickly as he could without seeming to hurry. It would be safer, he thought, to wait a short time before leaving himself. The Great Hall itself was now nearly empty, and that meant that there would be fewer students he might run into in the halls as he made his way to Draco’s room.

He glanced over at Ron and Seamus, then grinned slightly. They were still eyeing each other as if the argument might break out again – only Hermione’s presence stopping it. Harry looked at Hermione. She looked back at him, that knowing look still in her eyes. He was dying to ask her how she knew about Draco. But of course, he couldn’t now.

Just then, Dean and Neville came in and sat down. Dean crossed his arms over his chest and gave Seamus a look. “And just where have you been, if I may ask?” he said, rather put out. “We nearly missed dinner, waiting for you.”

Neville leaned forward over the table to look around Dean and added plaintively, “We’ve been working on that Herbology project all afternoon. You said you’d come help right after Quidditch practice.”

Seamus clapped his hands to the sides of his head, and his mouth dropped open. “Oh bloody hell, guys,” he exclaimed, “I completely forgot! Look, I promise, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll work on it all day tomorrow.” Then his eyes slid over to Harry and he grinned slyly. “But,” he said in a low conspiratorial voice, leaning in close to Dean and Neville, “wait ‘til you hear _why_ I forgot!”

Harry thought that he had better escape. Right now. He stood up from the table and started for the door. “I’ve got to go,” he announced, cutting Seamus off, not looking at anyone. “Don’t wait up!” he added with a grin, then he walked out.

* * * * * 

Harry had gotten only a little way down the hall, and was just congratulating himself on a narrow escape, when he heard his name.

“Harry?” the soft voice called after him. _Hermione_. Harry stopped and turned around, letting her catch up to him.

“I guess I can surmise from your reaction in there, that I was right about who you’ve been seeing,” she said, coming to stand face to face with him.

“You were right,” said Harry. “But how? How did you figure it out?”

“Elementary, my dear,” she said, with a self-satisfied grin. “I saw the chess set in Draco’s room when I was up there yesterday afternoon. You told Ron you were playing chess with someone in another house, but no one in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw had seen you. And I also noticed that you and Draco were acting differently to each other yesterday morning outside the Potions classroom.” She paused, then suddenly serious, she added, “I thought then, that you’d just finally made peace with each other, but . . . did you really mean what you said – what you told Ron this afternoon – about falling in love?”

“Yes,” said Harry, tensing for another scene like the one he’d had with Ron earlier. “I meant it.”

“But, Harry. With Draco? How?” She looked up at him, concern and disbelief in her brown eyes. “You two have hated each other since first year, and until yesterday, I thought you still did. How could that change so fast?”

“We didn’t hate each other, Hermione,” said Harry earnestly. “Not really.”

She continued to look at him doubtfully. “It sure seemed that way, Harry.”

“I know,” he said, shrugging slightly. “Even I believed it. But . . . last night we talked for hours, about everything, and . . . God, Hermione, it’s going to sound dumb, but well . . . it seems that he was always angry at me because he was terribly hurt that I didn’t like him, because he liked me, and I was always angry at him because he kept acting like such a git that I couldn’t like him, but I wanted to. And all the time there was this intense attraction between us that we didn’t understand that kept adding fuel to the fire.” Harry paused, then continued more hesitantly. “He’s changed, Hermione. Last night, he explained a lot of things, and I can’t . . . blame him anymore . . . for all that stuff from the past . . . it just doesn’t matter to me now.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully, then smiled at Harry. “I guess that does make a strange kind of sense. It explains why you could be so angry at each other, but not be able to leave each other alone. But what happened, Harry?” she asked. “What got you two together in the first place?”

“He kissed me,” said Harry softly, with a slightly embarrassed grin. “And after I realized he meant it for real, and wasn’t pulling some trick to humiliate me, I . . . well, I couldn’t stop wanting to kiss him back . . . so I did.”

“Wow,” said Hermione. “He just came up to you and _kissed_ you?! That’s . . . wow . . . just so incredible.”

Harry shook his head in astonishment. “That’s all you have to say?” he said, amazed. “I expected you to be shocked – and angry. I mean, it was rather a shock to _me!_ ”

Hermione laughed. “Well,” she said, “I’m not sure I believe any of it yet. I haven’t actually seen you two . . . together. And I’m not angry because I’ve been seeing a lot of Draco since school started this year, and I’ve talked to him myself. I’ve seen the change in him. I didn’t say anything to you and Ron about that, because I thought _you_ guys would be upset. Actually, when I first heard that he’d been made a prefect, I was dreading having to talk to him, but then it was clear right away that something was different with him. You do know that he should have been Head Boy this year, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know,” said Harry, unhappily, thinking that some of the blame for that not happening was his.

“I wish he had been. He’s so smart, Harry. He’s helped me work out several difficult problems, and been very polite to me about it. But even if he has changed, Harry, I . . . I hope you won’t mind if I say this . . . I just wonder if he is really right for you. I mean I think you need someone more . . . caring. He always seems so distant and . . . well . . . cool. Sometimes lately, he has just seemed sad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile. In fact, yesterday morning outside of Potions class when the two of you were grinning at each other is the closest to it that I’ve ever seen.” She paused, then looked thoughtful, and laid her hand on Harry’s arm. “Actually, that’s the closest I’d seen _you_ come to smiling in a long time,” she said, a gentle light in her eyes. “Ron’s right. You really have been looking happier the last two days.”

“I am,” said Harry, smiling for her now. “And you’re right about Draco. He has been sad . . . and that may have been partly my fault. But oh, Hermione, he _can_ smile. It almost makes my heart stop when he does. I haven’t laughed so much, or been so serious, or felt so . . . ” He blushed slightly, before continuing in a softer voice, “ . . . so deeply affected . . . by anyone . . . as I have the last two days with him. I really want this to work.”

“But Harry, are you quite sure we can trust him, now? What about his father?”

“I don’t know what will happen with his father,” said Harry, quietly. “But yes, I do trust Draco now.”

“Well, then,” said Hermione, as if making a hard decision on the spot, “I never thought I’d be saying this about Draco Malfoy, but, Harry, if you’re sure about it, then you have my support.”

Harry stepped forward and enfolded his friend in a giant bear hug. “God, Hermione,” he said. “You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, patting his back. “I’m afraid Ron won’t be so easy.”

Harry released his hold on her and sighed. “I don’t know what to do about that. I really tried to tell him this afternoon. In fact, I did tell him – at least I said that I really liked Draco. But he just would _not_ hear it.”

“You’re going to have to tell him straight out, Harry,” she said firmly. “He’s not going to figure it out himself from any hints – no matter how glaring. He’s not like that.”

Harry ran a hand through his tousled hair. “I just hoped I could ease him into it – get him to accept Draco as my friend first, but he refused to take it seriously. He kept saying stuff like, ‘That’s really mental, Harry.’”

Hermione frowned. “Yes, and if he says that to _me_ one more time, I’m going to charm his mouth shut for the day.”

Harry laughed.

Hermione looked up at him and smiled. “It’s so nice to see you laugh again,” she said. “And don’t worry. He’ll blow a fuse, throw a tantrum, and act like a stupid git for a few days, but he’ll come around eventually. He’ll have to. He loves you, Harry, though he would never say it like that. If you’re happy, he won’t be able to object for long.”

Harry folded her into another hug. “Thanks,” he said sincerely. “I feel so much better knowing _you_ aren’t angry. I’ll try to tell him again tomorrow.”

He held her for a very long moment, his eyes closed, noticing how very different she felt than Draco. She was nearly a head shorter than he was, and felt almost insubstantial in his arms. Draco and he were more or less the same height and build. Harry realized how much he liked looking straight into Draco’s eyes, and Draco in his arms was, oh God, most definitely not insubstantial. He loved the way their bodies aligned exactly together, the way it felt so perfect – 

Someone cleared their throat almost right in Harry’s ear. “I say,” said a low voice, as Harry and Hermione broke apart, “does Weasley know about this, Granger?”

Harry looked up directly into narrowed gray eyes. “God, Draco,” he gasped. “Must you sneak up on people?”

“ _I’m_ not the one sneaking around here.” Draco looked resentfully at Hermione.

Hermione frowned at him. “We were just talking about _you_ ,” she said.

Harry laughed. “And I was thinking about you the whole time.”

Draco looked back at Harry and his eyes softened quite a bit.

“She knows,” said Harry. “About us.”

“That’s not surprising, since you told Weasley this afternoon.”

“Well,” said Harry, with a grimace. “Actually, I didn’t. Hermione figured it out by herself.”

“Hmm,” said Draco, turning his gaze on Hermione. “That’s not surprising either. What _is_ surprising is that there’s no yelling going on.”

“That’s why I was hugging her,” said Harry. “She just said we have her support.” 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest and raised one eyebrow. “I don’t have to hug her too, do I?” he asked, as if it would be something distasteful, but the warmth in his eyes and the corner of his mouth that was creeping up in a cute lopsided grin put the lie to his tone.

* * * * * 

Hermione looked up at Draco and was startled by the unexpected warmth that was suddenly flooding his eyes. His manner was still that artless mixture of cool unruffled composure and aloof detachment, but the slight smile and the look in his eyes now was something she had never seen there before. She felt a sudden, almost irresistible urge to break out in a foolish grin at the guy. She felt slightly let down when he turned away to look at Harry. God, Draco Malfoy had presence. She had to give him that. So did Harry. They were alike in that way, both able to command attention with a look or a word.

She watched them now, as they stood facing each other, and where so many times before she had seen them face off, anger and loathing sparking from their eyes, she had to catch her breath at what she saw now. Oh, sparks were flying all right. The eye contact between them was electric. Draco was no longer looking at all cool and detached, and Harry was flushed, his attention completely riveted on the Slytherin. They moved closer to each other, their far hands entwining.

Hermione realized that to the two boys who stood only a step away from her, she had simply ceased to exist. And she knew one more thing too. Almost every girl at Hogwarts was going to be crushed. The two most sought-after boys in school had fallen for each other. It would be a startling and bitter disappointment.

“I came looking for you,” said Draco softly, reaching up with his free hand to gently straighten Harry’s glasses, “to say that you can’t come up to my room right now. Not unless you have that Invisibility Cloak with you.”

“I do have it,” said Harry, fishing around one-handed in his pockets. “Somewhere. I shrunk it.” Finally, he produced the cloak, currently the size of a small handkerchief, and then finally let go of Draco’s hand to pull out his wand. “ _Engorgio_ ,” he said and the cloak resumed its normal size. “So, why do I need this?” he asked.

Draco made an aggravated face. “Because Vincent locked Greg out of their room. I have no idea why. But now Greg is sitting out on the stairs, and Pansy is sitting out there with him acting like his long lost best friend.”

Harry snickered. “He could always take advantage of the astronomy tower later.”

“He’s too stupid to know that,” said Draco breaking into a grin. “I think he actually _likes_ Pansy.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, lord,” he said, then draped the cloak over his head.

Draco turned to face Hermione as Harry disappeared under the cloak. “Thanks,” he said simply. “I didn’t expect this.”

Hermione was just about to reply, when suddenly Harry reappeared for a split second right behind Draco. She only caught a glimpse of Draco’s surprised expression, and then both boys vanished as Harry engulfed Draco under the cloak too. She heard some scuffling and rustling, then an affectionate whisper. It sounded like, “Got you now, P-K.” _Was that Harry?_ And a low sultry laugh. _Draco!?_ There was a long moment of silence, then something that sounded like the mixture of a quiet contented sigh and a soft hum of pleasure. Hermione couldn’t tell if one voice had made the sound or two, and then there was another soft sound. Hermione’s face suddenly felt hot. There was no mistaking the sound of a kiss ending.

“Are you okay now?” asked Draco’s low voice in a tender teasing tone. “Didn't cough up any vital organs, brains, or other irreplaceable body parts, did you, D-W?”

Hermione’s jaw dropped in amazement. It was obvious she had been wrong about Draco. He was not acting cool and uncaring at all, or at least not to Harry. She heard Harry’s quiet laugh.

“No, I'm fine,” he said. “Just swallowed juice the wrong way.”

The sound of another kiss made her cheeks flame. There was a second of silence and then she heard both boys laugh.

“Oh, you should see your face, Hermione,” said Harry, chuckling.

“Yes, you really ought to close your mouth, Granger,” added Draco in his familiar annoying drawl, “before bats decide to live in there.”

Hermione’s mouth snapped shut, but before she could say anything, there was a sharp intake of breath and a low whispered exclamation.

“Ow! Harry, that was my foot!”

“Oh, it was?” asked Harry, laughing again.

She heard Draco’s low laugh in response. “You bloody well know it was,” he said, his tone far more amused than annoyed. There were more sounds of scuffling and muffled laughter, then an urgent “ _shhh_ ,” followed by an abrupt silence.

In the sudden quiet, Hermione heard footsteps. She turned around just as Ron walked up to her. “Hermione?” he said hesitantly. “Why are you standing out here by yourself?”

Hermione started to say that she was not standing there by herself when she realized that, of course, it certainly looked like she was. And she really couldn’t tell him who was with her without causing all kinds of trouble. “I was just . . . talking to Harry,” she said, frowning. “Trying to be supportive instead of pestering him like you and Seamus have been.”

“I didn’t mean to pester him,” said Ron, a very contrite expression on his freckled face. “And I know you said I should leave him alone, but . . . I can’t help it. There’s something weird going on with him and this girl he’s seeing – I think Malfoy’s involved with her too somehow, and I’m worried about it. I just don’t want him to get hurt . . . Please don’t be cross, Hermione. I can’t bear it.”

Hermione looked up into pleading blue eyes and gave in. She could not possibly stay angry with him for long. His fierce loyalty to the people he cared about, even though it was sometimes unintentionally misguided, was one of the things she loved most about him. “I’m not cross,” she said softly. “And no one wants Harry to get hurt, but we can’t interfere in his choices either.” She ignored Ron’s remark about the girl – _she_ was not going to be the one to tell him there was no girl. “You need to remember that _you_ can hurt him,” she went on, scolding him a little, “if you refuse to support him in this. And really, there’s nothing you can do about it now, except try to accept it. Harry’s already deeply involved . . . in fact, it seems they both are.”

Ron sighed. “So, you saw them together? Were you right about who it is?”

“Yes,” she said. “And yes, I was right.”

“It’s bad isn’t it? Harry said I won’t like it.”

Hermione crossed her arms and tried to look stern, but couldn’t quite. The stunning, and somehow intensely enchanting image of Harry and Draco holding hands and gazing at each other as if no one else existed in the world, kept running through her mind. “It’s _not_ bad,” she said with sudden conviction. “In fact, I think this may turn out to be very good – for both of them.”

 _Once we all get over the shock of it, that is_ , she added silently. “It’s only that it’s . . . so surprising . . . I mean . . . it’s just amazing . . . ” _God, they had been so . . . so . . . tender . . . with each other! Yes_ , she thought, _there’s no other word for it._

There was still that astonishing intensity between them – that hadn’t changed. That had always been there, she recognized suddenly, always. But they were expressing it and responding to it now in a way that no one could have imagined before. It was breathtaking. “Oh, Ron,” she said, breaking into a smile, finally giving in to the wonder of it, “you should have seen them . . . it’s awesome and shocking all together at once. Because this is probably the last person we would have ever expected Harry to end up with.”

There was a quiet, but distinctly and deeply insulted sniff from right out of the air directly behind Hermione.

 _Oh my God!_ Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. She had forgotten for a second that Harry and Draco were still standing right there.

Ron looked up, but then seemed to dismiss the unexplained sound. “Well, whoever it is, Harry does look happy,” he said. “That’s definitely good.” Then he stepped closer to Hermione and put his arms around her. “And _I’m_ very happy that I’m with you,” he said, smiling down at her for a moment before he bent to kiss her.

“Ron,” she whispered urgently, holding him off, but barely. “Not here!”

He just grinned at her. “Why not? No one’s going to see us. There’s no one anywhere _near_ here right now.”

And Hermione found herself enveloped in a sweet kiss that after a few seconds deepened into something much more intense.

Suddenly, from out of thin air, Ron and Hermione were surrounded by a horrible howling moaning sound. And somewhere under that awful chilling noise was . . . snickering?

The two flew apart.

“What the hell?” said Ron, aghast, as the din abruptly cut off.

“Er . . . ghosts!” said Hermione, quickly. “Come on!” She grabbed Ron’s arm. “Let’s get out of here. We can go up to my room.”

Ron allowed himself to be pulled away, though he continued for a moment to stare behind him at the now silent, seemingly empty hallway.

* * * * * 

When they were completely out of sight, Draco emerged out from under the Invisibility Cloak. “Oh. My. God,” he muttered. “I did _not_ need to see _that!_ ” He heard Harry laugh right next to him and he grinned. He held out a hand which was invisibly grasped. “Ready to brave the stairs?” he asked the air by his side.

“Ready when you are,” was the whispered response, and the grip on his hand tightened.

“Right then,” said Draco. “Stay close.” 

He walked to the Slytherin Tower with Harry in tow under the Invisibility Cloak. They went up two flights of the narrow winding stairs without incident, then on the third landing, Draco stopped and with a squeeze, let go of Harry’s hand.

Gregory Goyle was sitting on the next to bottom step, his head down in his hands, with Pansy practically draped on him. Together, they blocked the stairway completely.

Draco felt Harry press into him, a warm light pressure against his back, and felt breath against his ear as if Harry was looking over his shoulder. Then he felt Harry move back, out of the way, one fabric-covered hand trailing softly down Draco’s arm as he went. Draco suppressed a shiver at that light invisible touch, then turned his attention to the two Slytherin obstructions in his path. He fixed Greg with a narrowed stare. “Why did Vin lock you out of your room?” he asked, a clear hint of impatience in his voice.

When Greg didn’t answer, Pansy shrugged and answered instead. “I’ve been asking him that for the last half-hour, but he won’t say.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed them both with a mild death glare. “Then move,” he commanded quietly. “I want to get up to my room.”

Greg just moaned dejectedly and tried to squish himself closer to the wall, which had no effect whatsoever on the walking space in the stairway.

Draco rolled his eyes as Pansy patted Greg’s shoulder. He had to give Greg credit. The guy was certainly milking the situation for all it was worth. “Pansy,” he said sternly. “Get up. Just let me get by, then you can go back to your little love fest.”

Pansy looked up and gave Draco a withering look. “I’m being a friend, which is a lot more than you’re doing. You’re our prefect. Why don’t _you_ do something. You could at least try to talk to Vin.”

Draco tossed his hair back. “And why is that? They’re big boys. I don’t need to get involved in every single one of their stupid fights.” He took a step forward and held out one hand to her. “Pansy, come on. I lived with them for six years. Believe me, this is probably something really dumb.”

“It’s _not_ dumb,” said Goyle, speaking up for the first time.

“Ha! See,” said Pansy. She crossed her arms and gave Draco a look that dared him to move her.

“Like he would know what’s not dumb,” muttered Draco under his breath, completely losing the little bit of patience he had started with. “Fine!” he said aloud. He walked to the door and pounded on it. “Vin!” he yelled. “Open this door now!”

A muffled voice from the other side said, “Who is that?”

“It’s Draco, you sodding idiot! Open up!” The door opened a crack. Draco shoved the door open wider, grabbed a very surprised Vincent by the front of his shirt and hauled him out onto the landing. “You,” said Draco in that low, I-am-not-going-to-tolerate-any-nonsense tone, “will tell me what the bloody hell is going on, so I can get back up to my room.”

Crabbe turned and pointed at Goyle with an angry accusatory frown. “He hid Snooky and won’t tell me where he is. So I locked him out and said he can’t come back in until he gives him back.”

Draco’s eyes went up to the ceiling, then he turned on Goyle, incredulous. “You took his Snooky!” he hissed. “Are you crazy?” He glared at Greg for a moment longer, then turned back to Crabbe and put his arm around the bigger boy. “Now, now, don’t you worry,” he said in a low soothing voice, as he steered Crabbe toward his door. “You just go back in there and relax. I’ll get Greg to give you Snooky back.”

After Crabbe had disappeared into the room, Draco turned back to Goyle and gave him a contemptuous look. “That was a low thing to do,” he said, “even for a Slytherin. What do you care if he has that stupid stuffed thing.”

“Aw, Draco,” whined Goyle. “It’s gotten disgusting. It’s filthy and he . . . ugh . . . kisses it goodnight. It gives me the creeps.”

Draco gave him a dark look. “All right,” he said, in a lowered voice, “I didn’t want to do this, but I guess I’m going to have to tell you the truth about that toy of his. But first you have to swear not to ever tell him you know.” 

He gave both Greg and Pansy severe looks and they nodded.

“ _I_ only know this because I overheard his mother talking to my mother once when we were little kids. That stuffed . . . whatever it is . . . has an anti-transfiguration charm on it. If he doesn’t sleep with it every night, he might go back to having Animagus fits. His mum said he started having these fits when he was a baby, that he was turning into some kind of awful monster while he slept. That stuffed thing may be disgusting, but I’d say it’s better than waking up with a tentacle wrapped around your throat.” Draco leaned closer to Greg and whispered, “I heard them say he accidentally killed one of the house-elves that way – and he was only five years old.”

Greg gulped and looked slightly green. He stood up and edged past Draco. “I . . . er . . . think I’ll just go give it back to him right now,” he said, and he took off into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Finally,” he said. Then he turned to Pansy and raised one eyebrow. “There, I did something. May I go upstairs now?”

Pansy jumped up and rushed over to Draco, looking apprehensive. “Is Greg going to be all right – I mean, in there alone all night with Vin?” Then she frowned suspiciously as Draco started to laugh. “That story wasn’t true, Draco, was it?”

“No,” said Draco, looking down at her with cool amusement, “of course not. It was, however, brilliantly expedient. It got Greg back in his room, it got you off the stairs, _and_ Vin gets Snooky back.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “I told you it would be something dumb.”

She grinned slyly at him. “Ha, I knew all along it wasn’t true. And you were right. As usual.”

“As always,” he said, starting to step around her. He didn’t know where Harry was, but surely Harry would be ready to follow him now that Pansy was off the stairs.

But Pansy side-stepped quickly and blocked his way again. She giggled coquettishly. “I’m not letting you by just yet,” she said in that oozing syrupy tone. “Not until you agree to go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Draco froze in place, wincing at that revolting giggle. _Oh God_ , he thought, _not this again. Why can’t I just get up to my room in peace?_ He took a step back away from her, and crossed his arms over his chest. “No,” he said firmly. “I’ve already told you I won’t.” He stepped back again as she stepped toward him. “Pansy, I mean it. I’m not going with you.” He took another step back. “Don’t start this with me,” he said, a true edge of panic in his voice as she stepped toward him again. “You know I hate it.”

“I know you don’t really mean that,” she cooed, then she launched herself at Draco and threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh hey!” yelled Draco. He took hold of her arms and tried to pry her off, but she was wrapped around him like a strangling ivy vine.

A split second later though, with no warning, Pansy let out a piercing squeal and plastered herself even tighter against Draco. “Draco!” she gasped, clinging to him with all her might, “what is _that!?_ ”

“Stop grabbing me!” said Draco. “You’re going to wreck my shirt! I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“There! Look! On the floor!” Her voice was getting shrill. “Don’t you see it?”

“How can I see anything with you hanging all over me?!” he demanded, becoming more upset and embarrassed by the minute. _Oh, bloody hell_ , he thought. _What is Harry going to think of this?_

But then Draco looked at the floor, and had to fight the urge to fall down laughing on the spot. Right in the middle of the landing, standing up on its fingers, was . . . oh lord . . . a hand! He ducked his head to hide his grin, but Pansy’s gaze was riveted on that hand and he was sure she didn’t see his reaction. It took him just a second to get control of his expression, then looking back up with that perfectly practiced air of total disinterest, he shook his head back to get the hair out of his eyes. “No,” he said, in a constrained tone, trying to sound bored. “I don’t see anything. What does _it_ look like?”

“It’s a hand!” she screeched. “A disembodied hand! Just standing there!”

“Oh shit! Come on, Pansy,” he said, becoming truly annoyed at her when she screeched in his ear. “Get a grip, will you. There’s nothing there!”

Suddenly the hand moved. It skittered toward Pansy, running nimbly across the floor on its spidery finger legs.

Pansy screamed and tried to climb Draco. “Oh God, Draco, do something!” she wailed. “Step on it! Kill it! Don’t let it touch me!”

“Gaaaah!” Draco thought for a moment that she was going to choke him. “Get off!” he shouted, as he pried at her arms, trying to loosen her grip so he could breathe. “Have you gone insane?”

The hand skidded to a stop about a foot from Pansy’s shoe. There it stood, swaying back and forth, as if poised to spring.

Draco got a tight grasp on Pansy’s trembling shoulders and finally managed to pull her off him. Then he shook her slightly. She seemed to have gone numb from fright. “Pansy!” he said loudly. “Listen to me! It’s not real! Whatever you’re seeing – it’s not really there.”

She hazarded one swift glance at him, then looked instantly back to the floor. “But I can see it,” she whimpered. “Right there.”

“And I’m telling you there’s nothing there,” said Draco.

“You’re sure?” she asked uncertainly, her voice quivering.

“Of course,” he replied serenely. “Aren’t I always right? I bet if you tried to poke it, your foot would just go right through it.”

Pansy looked extremely skeptical. “Oh, no. You poke it first.”

Draco sighed dramatically. “I can’t even see it. How in bloody hell can I poke it?”

Pansy looked back down. The toe of her shoe moved ever so slightly toward the hand.

The hand leaped at her! Pansy shrieked as cold fingers seized her ankle. They were very cold, quite solid, and unquestionably real. She struggled to get away from Draco, but for a few seconds, he held on to her firmly. “Let me go!” she howled. He did, and so did the hand. Pansy almost fell backwards, arms windmilling frantically, then she turned and streaked up the stairs. They heard the loud slam of a door a moment later.

“Come on!” said Draco, catching hold of the hand that was now floating in mid-air. The boys ran, like all the hounds of hell were after them, up the stairs to Draco’s room and locked the door behind them. Draco fell back against the closed door and felt an invisible presence at his side do the same thing. They were both panting, out of breath from running up three flights of stairs. Then Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, and Draco turned to him, falling limply into his waiting arms. “God, Harry,” he said with a shudder, “that was awful. I feel like I’ve been mauled.”

* * * * * 

“You’re okay,” said Harry, rubbing Draco’s back. “I’ve got you now.” After a moment, he reached up and smoothed Draco’s hair down at the back of his neck. He felt the other boy shiver.

Draco pulled slightly away from him and started to laugh. “Your hands are like ice,” he said. “No wonder Pansy screamed.”

Their eyes met and both boys cracked up. Draco dropped his forehead onto Harry’s shoulder, and they just stood like that, holding each other up, giggling helplessly for several minutes.

“That was brilliant!” said Draco finally, when he could speak again. “So funny.” He lifted his head, shook back his hair, and grinned at Harry. “The Disembodied Hand!” he laughed. “And oh, God, her face! That was almost better than Snape.” Still laughing, he stroked the edge of the Invisibility Cloak where it was draped over Harry’s shoulder. “We could get in a lot of trouble with this, you know,” he said with grin and a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Yes, we definitely could,” said Harry, grinning back.

Draco laughed again, then pressed Harry back against the door and kissed him thoroughly. “You just keep surprising me, Harry,” he said, between kisses. “When I imagined being with you – ” Kiss. “I never thought – ” Kiss. “That it would be – ” Long kiss. “So much – ” Kiss. “Fun.”

“Didn’t you know – ” murmured Harry, left slightly light-headed, as the kisses trailed down onto his neck, “ – that my initials stand for _Handy Prankster?_ ” He leaned his head back against the door, eyes closed, then smiled at Draco’s low laugh.

“And here, all these years,” said Draco sweetly, lifting his head to look at Harry, “I thought they stood for _Humongous Prick_.”

Harry made a sort of strangled noise as the double meaning of that last word, plus an acute awareness of how Draco was pressed up against him, hit him, and his eyes flew open.

Draco was gazing at him with the most innocent, angelic, who-me-did-I-say-that? expression. “ _Prat_ ,” said Draco, smiling softly at him. “I meant to say _Prat_.”

Harry’s eyes met Draco’s and he felt his face flush at that smile and the deep affection illuminating those oh-so-lovely gray eyes. He smiled back. “Oh, did you now?” he teased, as he gently pulled Draco tighter against himself, and was gratified a second later when Draco blushed too. _Oh my. So pretty_. A little tremor of desire ran through him. “You keep surprising me too,” said Harry, leaning in for another soft kiss. “It _is_ amazing – that we can be fun together.”

Draco laughed. “Just wait,” he said grinning, “I have something even more fun planned.” He pulled out of Harry’s embrace, and walked to the chessboard. “Pawn to D4,” he said, as he moved one of the white fairies. Then he looked over at Harry with a full genuine smile.

Harry looked back at him and marveled. This was a very different Draco than the one who had stood by the lake this morning, tense and withdrawn. This Draco looked happy and confident, in fact, he was practically shining with anticipation. _Something more fun? Oh God_. Harry felt his knees go weak.

“Come sit over here,” said Draco, “on the floor by the fire. I just need to get some things – I’ll be right back, then I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.”


	10. Part II — The Game — Chapter 10

  


_One of these days, and it won’t be long, he’ll know more about me_  
_Than he should_  
_All my dreams will be understood_

Lyrics from “Heaven Help My Heart” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

A short time later, Harry was sitting in a very companionable silence with Draco, a cutting board balanced on his knees, slicing blackcap mushroom gills into tiny pieces. The two boys were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, next to each other but facing away at a slight angle, so that they could lean with their backs together for support. Harry was in his stocking feet, Draco had bare feet, and their two pairs of shoes were lined up, side by side, by the door. Draco’s portable potions set was spread out all around them. The low fire crackled pleasantly, and it felt comfortably warm and very welcome to Harry after the cold tower stairwell.

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Draco, highly amused by the situation, and his misunderstanding of what Draco had referred to as “ _something more fun_.” Draco was seriously studying a massively thick, heavy book he had gotten off his bookshelf in the corner. It was titled _Potions Through the Ages: A Historical Encyclopedia_. Harry suspected, judging by the soft expression of rapt pleasure on his face, that Draco really was reading it, as he had said, for fun.

Harry studied that face for several more moments, relishing the chance to watch the other boy in a rare unguarded moment. The firelight painted such delightful rosy and gilded flickering splashes of color on his skin and hair. “Hey,” said Harry with a teasing air, as he nudged Draco with his elbow, “I don’t think using your chess move to ask me to cut up potions ingredients quite adheres to the rules of the game.”

Draco looked up after a second and smirked at him. “You know _I_ never play by the rules, Harry. And besides,” he added, “we have N.E.W.T.s coming up, and I’m sure Snape is going to test us on this potion Monday.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Draco,” moaned Harry. “That means I’ll have to do this all over again on Monday. And Monday is the last day of classes before the holidays.”

“Which is exactly _why_ ,” Draco replied smoothly, “I’m sure he’s going to test us. You know he always does. And this Hex Mirror Potion is the hardest one we’ve studied, so it’s certain to be the one he picks.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re starting to remind me of Hermione now.”

Draco raised one brow in a vaguely affronted expression. “I’m not as insulted at that as I would have been once, but you can just plan to keep that opinion to yourself,” he sniffed, as he returned to his reading.

Harry chuckled. “It’s just that this is hardly what I expected we would be doing together on a Friday night,” he said. “When you said _‘something more fun,’_ this isn’t exactly what came to _my_ mind.”

Draco turned a page in the book, then looked back up at Harry with an alluring smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t say I was planning for us to do this _all_ night,” he said. He regarded Harry with amused curiosity kindling in his eyes. “I’m sure I’d be interested in what _you_ had in mind. We can quit this for tonight, if you want to.”

Harry looked around at all the stuff Draco had pulled out. “No, it’s okay,” he said with a regretful smile. “As long as this won’t take too long . . . and,” he added in a resigned tone, “if you think Snape is going to test us on this Monday, I could definitely use the practice. I’m just teasing you about calling it fun.”

Harry stopped for a moment to consider what he was feeling now – and was surprised to find he was enjoying himself. “But this isn’t really so bad,” he said. “I always hated it when Snape made us work together, and you would try to make me cut everything up for you, but now, it’s . . . well . . . it’s rather . . . nice, actually.” Harry felt his face go a bit warm at this confession.

Draco gave a low laugh. “Don’t let Snape hear you say that – he might have a seizure or something.” He paused for second, his head tilted slightly, thinking. “You have a point, though,” he said, “about the chess move. I asked you to do something, but it wasn’t something personal. Maybe I should change my question.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Harry with a grin. “You used your turn, however badly. It’s my turn now.”

Draco smiled slightly as if he had expected that and was rather pleased. “Go on then,” he said lightly, turning back to his book. “We can keep playing while we work on this.”

Harry set the cutting board aside, turned around and got up on his knees so that he could see over the edge of the table behind him. Very carefully, he lifted the chessboard down and set it on the floor between them. He settled himself back into his original cross-legged position, this time facing Draco across the board. Draco was still facing the fire, so was sitting sideways to Harry, and had obviously gotten absorbed in his reading again.

Harry studied the positions of his chess pieces for a few minutes, hesitating. He hadn’t really decided on something to ask yet; there were still so many things they needed to talk about. But as his eyes scanned the pieces, his attention was caught by the sight of Draco’s bare foot, which was peeking out from under Draco’s knee, not far from the edge of the chessboard. Those pale perfect toes and half-a-foot filled Harry with a sudden irresistible inspiration. The serious stuff could wait.

He moved his King and Rook together, and switched their places in the back row. “Castle,” he announced. He eyed that exposed foot again for a second, then looked up with a smirk. “Draco,” he asked, trying to maintain an air of complete innocence, “are you ticklish?”

Draco glanced up from his book and snorted derisively. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he responded, turning back to his reading as if the matter were far too inconsequential to be discussed. “You just wasted _your_ move now.”

Harry almost laughed though, when Draco shifted subtly and his foot disappeared under his knee. “No one’s ever _tried_ to tickle you, have they?” persisted Harry.

“Of course not,” replied Draco in an insulted tone. “No one would dare.”

Harry smiled a sly smile. “ _I_ would,” he said. “ _I_ suspect you are.”

Draco looked back up from his book to stare at Harry, scandalized. “And _I’m_ quite sure I’m not. I would never let myself be something so . . . so . . . undignified.”

That made Harry laugh out loud. “Well, we’ll just see about that, now won’t we?”

“Oh hey, wait a minute!” said Draco, slamming the book shut. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Harry, still grinning. “I definitely plan to test my theory . . . but not right now. You’re safe enough – for the moment.”

“You’re just going to make me angry, you know, if you try,” said Draco. He quickly turned back to his book, opening it randomly to the middle.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Harry. He watched Draco duck behind the pages of his enormous book, but not before he’d seen the blush that crept over that pale face. He got up on his knees and carefully placed his hands on the other side of the chessboard, so that he could lean forward, close to Draco. He gently nuzzled Draco’s earlobe and felt a tremor run through the other boy. “You might like it,” whispered Harry into that now very pink ear. “You might like it a lot.”

Draco used one arm to push Harry away. “Aren’t you supposed to be cutting up mushrooms?” he said, trying to sound annoyed. But he was smiling now in spite of himself.

Harry sat back with a wide grin, pleased that he had made Draco smile. “I’ll leave you alone for now,” he said, laughing. “But when you least expect it . . . then we’ll see who’s not ticklish.”

Draco grinned back, now seeming to enjoy the joke. “All we’ll see is who wasted their time,” he countered.

Harry just laughed and picked up the cutting board again. “Yeah, we’ll see,” he said. He poked at the pile of diced mushroom gills with the knife. “How’s this?” he asked.

Draco took a quick look at the pile, nodding his approval. “That’s fine,” he said. He passed Harry one of the empty bottles from his kit. “Put them in this for now. We have to have all of the ingredients prepared before we start.” He flipped through the pages of the book for a moment, until he found his place again, while Harry scraped the gills into the bottle. “Hmm,” he said, reading down the page, “we need dried Billywig stings next. I have some in this kit, somewhere.”

They sorted through the packets spread out on the floor until they found them. “There isn’t much here,” said Harry. “Will there be enough?”

Draco examined the packet critically. “Yes,” he said, “but barely. So be careful with them.”

Harry dumped the contents of the packet out on the cutting board, eyeing the sharp stingers on the sapphire blue insects warily. “I hope _they_ will be careful with _me_ ,” he murmured.

“Here,” said Draco, reaching over to demonstrate. “Hold them by the head up where the wings are, like this . . . and cut the stinger off the other end. Use the knife to push the stinger to one corner of the cutting board so you don’t have to touch it. Just be careful where you put your fingers and you’ll be fine.”

Harry sighed. Some of the ingredients in this potion made him decidedly nervous. “Okay,” he said, cautiously taking hold of one of the bright blue bugs. “But if you find me floating up by the ceiling later, it’ll be entirely your fault.”

Draco laughed. “Now _that_ ,” he said, “would be funny.”

Harry chuckled. He had to admit, it would be pretty funny. But . . . he wasn’t planning to experience it if he could help it. He bent over the cutting board, concentrating on his task. After successfully cutting off four or five of the stings, he relaxed. It really wasn’t so hard. He paused for a moment and glanced over at Draco and was surprised to find Draco watching him, his grey eyes soft. Harry smiled at him. “What?”

“Just thinking,” said Draco. “It’s my turn.” Draco pushed the hair back from his forehead with one hand before reaching down to the chessboard. “Queen to G4,” he said, as he moved his Queen and took Harry’s Knight. “I know I promised I wouldn’t ask, but since you told me about it this morning . . . I would like to know more about this healing thing you can do.”

Harry frowned, more at the loss of his Knight, than at the question. Actually, he found himself quite willing to talk about his favorite subject, now that Draco knew about it. “I guess it started when I decided to take Magical Medicine from Madam Pomfrey last year,” he began. “I’m not sure why I did, because I had never thought much about that subject, except I didn’t want to take Advanced Divination or Arithmancy and there wasn’t much left to choose from. But when I did think about it, I was interested in it. It seemed like something useful I might do, something really needed, with the war coming and all, instead of – ”

Harry paused briefly, as if reconsidering something he had been about to say. “I thought maybe I could find a different way to be involved,” he continued softly. “About half-way through the term, Madam Pomfrey had all of us tested for magical healing potential. I guess it’s an ethical standard thing, because she said anyone who was going to practice magical medicine had to have a valid classification.”

Draco nodded as if none of this was new to him.

“I tested out at class-seven,” said Harry, uneasily, still embarrassed to say it.

“On the first test?”

“Yes,” said Harry.

Draco whistled softly, genuinely impressed. “I bet that knocked her knickers off. That’s as high as you can get, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Harry again, then grinned sheepishly. “She called me in privately to tell me my score, and Professor Dumbledore was there, and they both looked so serious. I thought I had failed it entirely and they were going to tell me I had to drop out of the class. When they said my score was a seven, I thought that was bad.”

Draco tilted his head slightly and gave Harry a teasing smile. “You really are such a Muggle sometimes, Harry.”

Harry grinned back and shrugged. “How was I supposed to know? I’d never heard of any of this stuff before.” He bent down over the cutting board and cut off two more stings before continuing. “I finished last year doing pretty much what everyone else did, but this year Madam Pomfrey is working with me alone.”

“Not many people can do wandless healing, you know.”

“Madam Pomfrey says that wands are tools, or focal points,” replied Harry, “and make doing magic easier. When you’re first learning magic, they’re very important and necessary. If you can learn to focus by yourself, you don’t need them. Most people don’t try to learn and always stay dependent on their wands.”

“Is that what you’re working on then?” asked Draco, looking down, idly ruffling the corners of the pages in his book. “Learning how to do wandless magic?”

“Only with healing,” said Harry quickly. “I doubt I could do it with anything else. But right now,” he added, his voice full of quiet enthusiasm, “I’m studying magical auras and how to see what’s wrong with a person by recognizing the patterns of light and color in their aura.”

Draco looked up at Harry, avid interest lighting his eyes. “You can see magical auras?”

“Yes,” said Harry, feeling self-conscious again. “When I concentrate in a certain way I can. But Madam Pomfrey has an instrument called an Aurascope. It looks a lot like a pair of Omnioculars. With that, anyone can see them. Mostly I work with that, but she is making me practice seeing them on my own.”

“And nobody else knows about any of this?” asked Draco. “Not even Weasley and Granger?”

“No,” said Harry. “Only Madam Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore – and now you.” Harry met Draco’s eyes, suddenly serious. “I don’t want anyone else to know, Draco.”

“Harry,” said Draco, in a tone that implied he had been mildly insulted. “Not even torture with rusty Muggle spoons could drag it out of me.” Then he laughed quietly at Harry’s still earnest expression, reached over the chessboard to rest his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, and gently stroked the soft spot behind Harry’s ear with his thumb. “I told you once before,” he said levelly, sincerely, “whatever you tell me is just between us. I’m not going to talk about anything we say to each other. It’s . . . well . . . very private to me. And I’m trusting you will do the same.”

“I will,” said Harry, feeling a rush of gratitude. All his life he had wanted privacy. Though he had endured many, many hours locked up alone at the Dursleys’, he had always had the feeling that he was being constantly watched. That feeling had only been magnified ten-fold when he had emerged into the wizarding world.

Even with Ron and Hermione, there was nothing he could tell one of them without the other one knowing it almost immediately. It was true that for the moment, Hermione was keeping quiet about his relationship with Draco, because she understood that Harry needed to be the one to tell Ron. Still, Harry didn’t think she would keep the secret long if he failed to tell Ron quickly enough to suit her.

But Draco was, in every way, different. Harry was delighted by this new concept – that there were private, confidential things meant to be known and shared only between the two of them. “Thank you,” he added in a hushed tone. “That means a lot to me.”

Draco leaned toward Harry, pulling him closer at the same time, and Harry met him halfway and the promise was sealed with a kiss right over the middle of the chessboard. Harry took his hand from the cutting board in his lap to hold onto Draco, but when he leaned forward a little further, the cutting board slipped off his lap and clattered onto the floor, scattering the Billywigs in all directions.

Harry pulled out of the kiss, took one look at the spilled Billywig stingers and swore. “Oh hell, Draco. I don’t know why you wanted me to do this in the first place.” He sighed deeply. “I was bound to ruin it somehow.” He ran his hand through his hair, making a section of it stick up in the back.

Draco just shook his head, but his eyes shone from amusement, affection, and the after-effects of their kiss. Harry really was such an adorable git. He rummaged around in his box of miniature accessories and pulled out a pair of tweezers. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, handing them to Harry along with a small vial. “Just find the stings and pick them up.”

While Harry searched the floor for the Billywig stings, Draco busied himself getting some of the other ingredients prepared. By the time Harry had collected all the stings, Draco had measured out four more of the ingredients: strangling ivy sap, armadillo bile, flobberworm mucus and one eye of newt.

Harry added the vial of stings to the growing row of jars. “Okay,” he said with relief. “I found them all. What else do we need?”

Draco consulted his monstrous book, running his slim fingers down the list of ingredients on the page, before he closed it and set it aside. “Only four more things. I can do the runespoor eggs and the powdered manticore skin. The foxglove and the pickled Murtlap growth have to be cut up.”

Harry wrinkled up his nose at the anemone-like Murtlap tentacles, and was grateful they needed only a small amount. When he had that finished, he sat for a moment considering the position of his chess pieces, his hand hovering indecisively over the board. “Rook to E8,” he said at last. Draco glanced over as Harry moved his Rook. Harry looked up into curious, expectant gray eyes. “What are you planning to do after graduation?” he asked.

Draco’s eyes widened for a split second, then he turned back to measuring the runespoor eggs. “I don’t know,” he said after a short silence.

Harry waited for Draco to say more, but when Draco continued to work in silence, he sighed inwardly. There were still so many unknowns between them. Harry had hoped to get Draco to talk about the possibility that he might be staying to teach at Hogwarts, wondering if Draco knew that Dumbledore was considering that possibility for him. “What about – ” he started to ask, but Draco set the small jar of runespoor eggs on the floor and cut him off.

“I’m not planning to do anything,” he said coolly. And before Harry could ask him to explain that, Draco reached for the chessboard.

Harry studied Draco intently while Draco considered his next move, his hand poised over the board. Had Draco seemed anxious to dodge that question? Harry wasn’t sure why Draco wanted to avoid the subject, but he didn’t want to press him about it. Not yet anyway. Harry picked up the packet of foxglove spikes just as Draco selected his Bishop.

“Bishop to H6,” said Draco soberly, moving the piece diagonally two spaces. “Same question, Harry. What will _you_ do when you graduate?” He turned to Harry, one eyebrow delicately arched. “Well?” he queried, a slight edge in his voice, when Harry just sat and stared at him. “Surely _you_ have plans.”

Harry felt a tiny spark of bitterness flare up inside him. “No,” he said flatly, after a moment. “ _I_ don’t get to have plans, Draco.” Harry dumped a foxglove flower spike onto the cutting board and started slicing the flowers from the stem as neatly as he could, though it was hard because he felt quite unsettled, almost angry. Now that the tables were turned, he wasn’t sure he wanted to answer that question either. The truth was, he felt trapped in a very bleak future. Did Draco feel that way too? Is that why he had avoided the question? Harry remembered what Dumbledore had told him. _“He has a very uncertain future.”_

 _And so do I_ , thought Harry. _So do I_. It had been a stupid thing to ask. But when Harry looked up, intending to apologize for asking it, he found that Draco was gazing at him with gray eyes that were clouded over with unaskable questions, and suddenly there were words that Harry needed to speak to someone and never had.

Swallowing down the ache in his throat, Harry began to talk. “What _can_ I do?” he asked in a taut voice. “Where would I go?” His knife made a jagged rip in a petal and he put it down, temporarily giving up on cutting any more. “As long as Voldemort is still in hiding and we don’t know his plans, Dumbledore won’t let me leave. So,” he said, “I’ll be staying here – working with Madame Pomfrey in the hospital and helping Madame Hooch with Quidditch and flying classes. I’ll be stuck here indefinitely until they trot me out to play the Great Hero of the Wizarding World.”

He paused for a few seconds, adding in a very low, tense voice, “They think that’s what I want, too.” Just saying these last words left an almost acid taste in Harry’s mouth. He looked up from the cutting board and stared into the fire for a moment. “But they’re wrong, Draco,” he continued. “They’re all wrong. I don’t want to do it. And I’m not going to – not if I have anything to say about it.” Harry picked up the knife again and began slicing the flowers he had cut off the stem. His cuts were slightly jagged, but determined.

Draco finished pouring out the small measure of powdered manticore skin they needed into a jar, and set it in line with the other ingredients. Then he turned around so that he faced Harry, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers interlaced loosely together. “Don’t want to do what?” he asked quietly, his eyes studying Harry’s face.

“I don’t want to fight Voldemort again,” came the subdued, but firm reply. Harry kept his eyes down. He seemed intent on his knife work, but his voice wavered slightly when he continued speaking. “What happened after the Tri-Wizard Tournament was too . . . too horrible. I was alone out there . . . after Cedric died. . . . ” Harry stopped talking again for a moment, seeming to be concentrating on his cutting. “I watched him die, Draco,” he said finally, continuing in a hushed tone. “I don’t think I can go through anything like that again – it still haunts me.”

Draco bit his lower lip and said nothing. He dropped his head, looking down at his hands. Fiery highlights reflected in his blond hair as it spilled down over his forehead and hid the fleeting expression of pain that flickered over his face. “So that’s why you wanted to study healing?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” agreed Harry, solemnly. “But only because I was – am – hoping I could be allowed to play a different role. Not because I think I could have saved Cedric. No one has ever healed someone from the Killing Curse, not even a class-seven mediwizard.” Harry paused, and looked over at Draco for the first time since he had started talking, his green eyes sparking with a kind of hopeless anger. “Have you ever seen him, Draco? Have you ever seen Voldemort?”

Draco raised his head and met Harry’s eyes. “No.”

“He’s like a walking nightmare. Hideous. And do you know what he said? He said, ‘Kill the spare.’ Cedric’s life was just . . . nothing . . . to him. It makes me sick to think of it. And the worst part of all of it is . . .” Harry trailed off.

Draco waited, but when Harry didn’t continue, he asked softly, “What?”

Harry took a deep breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. “The worst part is . . . that no one is going to ask me what I would choose, and I won’t say anything about it. I’ll just do what they want, because even if I don’t want to do it, I won’t be able to face letting them down. I’ll be the bloody brave Gryffindor they want me to be, and I’ll go out there on cue and die.”

Harry got the last jar that Draco had set out and poured the foxglove petals into it. “I don’t want to fight in this war, Draco. It scares me to death – the expectations people have – because I can’t do what they want – not by myself. Sometimes I just want to scream at them to leave me alone.”

Harry looked up at Draco again and their eyes met. There was something elusive, like mist, in those gray eyes. Harry glanced down, breaking the eye contact. “I know that must sound terribly childish,” he said apologetically. He absently picked up the foxglove stem, now stripped of its flowers, and tossed it on the fire.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Draco. He studied Harry’s troubled profile for a moment, then looked away into the fire, watching the flower stem curl and twist in the heat and finally burst into flames. “I understand what you mean,” he said softly. “Neither of us has been given much choice in our lives.”

They were both silent for a few minutes. Harry reached out, and laid his hand over Draco’s where it lay on Draco’s knee. Draco turned his palm up, their fingers interlaced, and they held hands with each other for a moment, a small gesture of comfort for both of them.

“That was a stupid question,” said Harry, “considering both our situations. And I don’t know what made me say all of that – I usually keep those thoughts to myself.”

Draco just shrugged. “I asked,” he said. “You must have needed to talk.”

With a gentle squeeze, Harry released the hand he held and waved at the long line of potions ingredients they had prepared. “Don’t we have everything ready now?”

“Yes, we do,” said Draco, brightening considerably. “We can start the mixture now.”

Harry smiled at that, feeling cheered himself by Draco’s obvious enjoyment of this project. “What’s first?” he asked.

“First,” said Draco, retrieving his book and leafing through the pages to the right place, “is . . . let’s see . . . to combine all the liquid ingredients.” He propped the book up against the side of the chair behind him to make it easier to refer to. “This will be tricky, Harry,” he continued, as he moved closer to the fire and placed the small cauldron in front of him. “Everything has to be added in an exact order, so it will take both of us to do it right.”

Harry nodded, and joined Draco next to the cauldron, ready to follow instructions. There were three liquids, the ivy sap, the flobberworm mucus and the bile. Harry took two of them and Draco took the third.

“Ready,” whispered Draco, when their three hands were poised over the cauldron. “Pour!” Draco stirred as they poured in unison. When it was done, he looked up at Harry and smiled his approval. “You did that exactly right,” he said.

Harry smiled back and knew he must have colored slightly. He wondered if he would ever get over the lightheaded heat rush effect Draco’s unexpected praise always had on him.

They carefully added four more ingredients and Draco used the tongs to hang the cauldron over the fire. “We let that boil, then take it out of the heat, before we add the rest,” he explained. Draco sat back and turned to Harry. Without a word, they moved to sit beside each other, putting their arms around each other’s waists, watching the flames in the grate dance and lick at the bottom of the cauldron. After a few moments, Draco leaned his head against Harry’s and spoke. “What if there was no war,” he asked quietly, “ – no Voldemort? What if you _could_ do anything you wanted to? What would you do then?”

It was several more moments before Harry answered. “I . . . well, I guess I’d want to continue studying to be a mediwizard, and when I was good enough, I’d start my own practice.”

Draco raised his head and gave Harry a questioning look. “And how is that different than what you’re going to be doing if you stay here and continue studying with Madam Pomfrey?”

“Er,” said Harry, slowly. “Well, I guess it’s not much different.”

“Idiot,” said Draco softly, a hint of an entrancing smile on his lips.

Harry smiled back self-consciously, feeling a bit foolish, as that smile of Draco’s always seemed to do that to him. But he also felt suddenly lighter, as if he could breathe more freely. He realized he no longer felt quite so trapped. “I never thought about it like that,” he said. Then he grinned. “Draco, that was brilliant.”

Draco just grinned smugly back at him and shrugged. “Of course it was,” he said.

And with a rush, Harry knew exactly the next question he wanted to ask in the game.

Draco took his arm from around Harry’s waist and picked up the tongs. Carefully, he removed the hot cauldron from the fire and set it on the stone floor. He started slowly adding the runespoor eggs two at a time, while he stirred the mixture.

Harry turned around so that he could reach the chessboard behind him. He moved the Pawn in front of his King forward one space. “Pawn to G6,” he said quietly, hiding his hope and anxiety. This question might mean everything. “Draco,” he said, starting hesitantly, “I . . . I know how uncertain everything is . . . but, if we can win this war, if Voldemort can be defeated . . . and if. . . we survive . . .” _God, so many ifs . . ._ Harry swallowed hard – this was so important. “Would you consider . . . would you work with me . . . as my Potions master?”

Draco finished stirring the runespoor eggs into the cauldron and didn’t respond. Harry’s words fell and melted away as if into a distant space of time, leaving a suspenseful silence filled only by the low hiss and sizzle of the fire.

After several seconds of this agonizing silence, Harry spoke again, rushing in his nervousness to fill the suspended emptiness. “You said last night that mediwizards have to be good Potions masters, or have to work with one. And you know I’ll never be good at this stuff,” he said, waving his hand to indicate the potions supplies that surrounded them. “We could be partners. It would be great . . .” 

Draco looked up at him then, and Harry was startled speechless by the shaken look on Draco’s face. Harry didn’t know what to think. Had he been so wrong to believe that Draco would like the suggestion?

Draco stared at Harry for another long moment of stunned silence. “You would really want to do that?” he asked finally. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “With me?”

“Of course, with you,” said Harry, quietly, puzzled. “Now who’s being an idiot?” he added gently.

Draco looked down, breaking the eye contact between them. He sat with his eyes closed, his hands balled into loose fists on his lap.

“Draco?” questioned Harry very softly. He reached over and tentatively touched Draco’s shoulder. “What?”

Draco took a deep breath, glancing back up to Harry’s face for a moment, then away again. “It’s just that . . .” he said slowly, “. . . it was only a few nights ago that I was sure you would never want any kind of future with me, and now . . . I . . . ” He looked up and this time met Harry’s very concerned gaze steadily. “So many ifs, Harry,” he said, echoing Harry’s own thought only a moment before. “You know it isn’t likely to happen.”

“I know,” agreed Harry in a low voice. He searched deeply into the sadness that filled Draco’s misty eyes. “But, if it could,” he asked, “would you?”

“If it could,” said Draco slowly and solemnly, “it would be the most perfect thing I would ever want to do.”

Harry’s heart turned over. “For me too,” he whispered.

Draco looked down for a moment, studying the chessboard. When he looked back up at Harry, his eyes were shining. “Actually,” he said, in a hushed voice, “it would be the second most perfect thing I can think of to do.”

“The . . . second?” said Harry uncertainly, caught off guard by Draco’s seeming change of mind.

But Draco didn’t give Harry a chance to say anything else, as he moved his remaining white dragon. “Knight to F3,” he said. Firelight was casting his features in a warm golden glow, as his eyes held Harry’s in a mesmerizing gaze. “There is _one_ thing that would be even more perfect,” he said. He hesitated, then reached out and laid his hand over Harry’s. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

 _Oh_. Harry almost forgot to breathe. There was no mistaking Draco’s intentions this time. Harry gulped a shallow breath. His heart was pounding now, and he knew that the heat that flushed his face was not because of the fire. “Yes,” he said softly. “I would love to.”

There was a heated pause, then Draco broke into an adorable grin, and Harry found himself grinning back, and for a moment nothing existed for either of them but this smiling elated understanding and the pulsing anticipation that was running like wildfire through their veins. “Come on then,” said Draco with unfeigned enthusiasm, still grinning. He gave Harry’s hand a squeeze before he let go and motioned at the half-completed potion in front of them. “Let’s get finished with this. Like I said, I don’t want to spend all night doing Potions practice.”

“So, tell me what goes in next,” said Harry with a laugh. “I’m more than ready to pack this mess up.”

“The manticore skin, I think.” Draco fumbled for a moment with the book, which had fallen shut, turning pages, trying to get back to his place. He found it and shook his head. “No, wait,” he said. “I was wrong. The eye of newt is next.”

“Too late,” said Harry, kneeling over the cauldron, holding up the now empty bottle that had contained the powdered skin.

Draco stared at him, a look of growing alarm on his face. “Harry!” he shouted. “Get back!”

But Harry didn’t have time to react. The potion gave one shuddering, bubbling heave, then FOOMP!! The potion exploded, splattering Harry’s head, the side of his face, one shoulder and his chest with gloppy green liquid.

“Bloody hell, Draco! Yuck! Get this stuff off me!”

Draco shot to his feet in an instant. Harry was reaching up to wipe the gooey mess off his face, but Draco grabbed his hands. “No! Don’t touch it, Harry. And don’t open your eyes. Just get up and come with me.” He tugged Harry to his feet, and pulled him away from the fireplace. “There’s only one way to get that stuff off.”

“I can’t see where I’m going,” protested Harry. “And it’s burning.”

“I know,” said Draco. He was trying to stay calm, but the goo was beginning to smoke. “Harry, you have to hurry. Just come on!”

Draco urgently half-guided, half-dragged Harry across the room, into the bathroom. Quickly, he shoved the shower curtain aside, pushed Harry into the shower stall and turned on the water.

Harry gasped violently as the full force of the ice-cold water hit him. He tried to jerk away, but Draco had a firm grip on him. “Draco!” he sputtered, as Draco forced him back under the water. “The water’s _freezing!_ ”

“Shut up and stand still!” yelled Draco back. “We don’t have time to wait for the hot water! We have to get this off you now!”

Draco took hold of Harry’s chin and tilted his head back into the stream of water, and was vastly relieved when Harry didn’t fight him or argue anymore. He just stood there, rigid from the shock of the icy water, his eyes squished tight and his teeth clenched, and allowed Draco to turn him this way or that. When Draco was certain he had washed all the potion off Harry’s skin and hair and clothes, he removed Harry’s glasses, rinsed them off, and laid them carefully on the edge of the sink. Finally satisfied, Draco said, “Okay. I think I got it all. But you need to wash your hair properly, as soon as the water gets hot.”

Harry ducked out of the water, which was just barely beginning to get warm. He leaned back against the opposite side of the shower stall and wiped the water out of his eyes with one hand. Then he wrapped his arms around himself and fixed Draco with a dark stare.

Draco tried not to, but he couldn’t help it, partly from relief that Harry was okay, and partly due to the spectacle that was Harry standing there, black hair flattened against his skull and dripping water down his face – he started laughing. “Lord, Potter,” he said between giggles, “you look like a drowned cat!”

Harry glared at him. “Is that so?” he retorted. With no warning, and a Snitch-quick grab, Harry lunged forward through the water and seized the front of Draco’s shirt.

There was one split second when Draco realized Harry’s intent. “Oh no, Harry,” he gasped, horrified, “not in my – ”

Harry hauled him in under the water.

“ – clothes,” finished Draco, lamely, as the pouring water drenched him from head to foot.

It was Harry’s turn to laugh, as Draco stepped out of the water, his hair also now flat and dripping from long spiky tendrils that hung over his eyes. “I say, Malfoy,” said Harry, greatly amused and imitating Draco’s previous tone, “ _you_ look like a drowned _rat!_ ”

“It’s not funny, Harry,” said Draco, shutting off the water, pulling the front of his soaked shirt away from his chest. “I really liked this shirt. Now it’s probably ruined,” he added mournfully. “It’s all . . . wet.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “And what do you think happens to it when it gets washed, you silly git?”

Draco looked up at Harry and frowned. _“Washed? ”_ he repeated with disbelief. “As in wet and soapy? Don’t be daft. You know as well as I do that the house-elves take our clothes away and spell them clean. I’m quite sure they don’t get them _wet_.”

Harry leaned his head back, closed his eyes for a second, and was only partially successful in trying to stifle a laugh, remembering the tons of laundry he’d done for Aunt Petunia. But when he looked back at Draco, he felt sorry as well as amused, his annoyance at being shoved into the icy water forgotten. Draco was frowning at him through a fringe of dripping hair and looked quite disconsolate. “Hey,” he said contritely, taking hold of Draco’s wrist and drawing him closer so he could reach Draco’s buttons, “c’mon, let’s get this off you and hang it up. It’ll dry, and the house-elves will take care of it. I’m sure it will be fine.”

Draco still looked skeptical, but he let Harry unbutton him and help him get the shirt off.

Harry had to admit it was a very nice shirt. He hoped he was right that it would be okay. Belatedly he remembered that there were some nicer things that his aunt had always had dry cleaned.

While Harry carefully squeezed the excess water from the fabric and draped the shirt over the shower curtain rod, he was aware that Draco was watching him closely, as if the shirt was a favorite pet undergoing a life-threatening operation. But when Harry had finished gently draping the shirt over the shower curtain rod to dry, he was relieved to see that Draco was looking much less forlorn, evidently reassured by Harry’s apparent expertise in dealing with such traumatizing and delicate things as wet shirts.

Draco moved closer to Harry and gently touched Harry’s face where the potion had splashed. The skin was a little red, but not noticeable. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Not really, just a very slight burning feeling.”

Draco nodded. He looked very serious. “Do you know what would have happened if we hadn’t washed it off as quickly as we did?”

“No,” said Harry.

“It would have burst into flames,” said Draco bluntly. “It was starting to smoke when we were walking in here.”

Before Harry could react to that, he found himself suddenly being forced gently but very firmly against the back wall of the shower stall as a pair of insistent hands started on the buttons of his shirt, and tugged his shirttail out. He looked up into Draco’s eyes and blushed at the intensity in that gray gaze. Harry felt Draco’s hands slip inside his shirt, slide around his waist, and up his sides to rest behind his shoulders. Then Draco was leaning into him, pressing against him in a way that made Harry catch his breath.

With a deep sigh, Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s. “Dammit, Harry,” he said in a very low voice, “you scared the hell out of me.”

The caring implied in those words and implicit in Draco’s tone of voice went straight to Harry’s heart, melting him from head to toe. A lump formed in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice muted by emotion. “I had no idea . . . ” He wrapped his arms around Draco, held him tightly. “And I’m sorry . . . that I got your shirt wet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Draco softly, with a small shrug, his face still serious. “You’re okay . . . that’s what matters.” His eyes closed, his long tawny lashes clinging together in damp spikes against his skin. He relaxed against Harry, content for a time just to be held and rest within the comfort of that embrace. After a few moments, he lifted his head, and with his mouth only a breath away from Harry’s face, touched his tongue to a droplet of water on Harry’s cheek.

It was the merest touch of wet on wet, but a thrill tremor shivered through Harry, his attention riveted by the sensations he felt as Draco’s mouth moved down, still not actually touching him, only breath whispering warm over the cool wetness of his skin, moving down until Draco ran his tongue slowly over Harry’s lower lip. Harry opened his mouth slightly, let his tongue touch Draco’s and retreat, an invitation. The silky contact filled his stomach with fluttery sparks and he tightened his arms around Draco in response, just as Draco accepted that invitation. Draco kissed him deeply, possessively, but with an intense gentleness that left them both trembling.

Draco pulled back to look at Harry, his eyes taking on a dreamy quality.

Harry looked up into Draco’s eyes, which were only a mere inch from his own, and got lost in the gray velvet that gazed back at him. And he knew without the slightest doubt that he was, in that moment, slipping irrevocably, effortlessly, and earth-shatteringly from falling in love to being in love, and that he wanted this person in every way possible. “Draco . . .”

“Shh,” said Draco softly. “Hurry and come out. Come to bed.”

 _Oh_ , thought Harry, _but. . ._ Harry reached up and brushed the wet blond tendrils out of Draco’s eyes, memory surfacing unbidden once more. He hesitated for a moment because his heart was hammering, then said quietly, solemnly, barely above a whisper, “We have to talk about something first.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” was the equally quiet response. Draco tilted his head and kissed Harry again, a light, fleeting kiss. “The shampoo and soap are up there,” he said, indicating with a nod, a small shelf on the wall above their heads. “Hurry up.” He delayed a moment more, his eyes reflecting back the warmth and desire that were in Harry’s eyes, before turning and stepping out of the shower stall, pulling the curtain closed behind him, leaving Harry alone.

The sudden absence made Harry close his eyes and stand motionless, overcome with longing for a few seconds. Then he heard a zipper unzip on the other side of the curtain, followed by the sound of wet jeans being pulled off, and his face went hot. _“Hurry up.”_ Harry turned on the tap. The water was not icy this time, but still not warm enough for comfort, so he stood back from the water while he struggled out of his own wet, clinging clothes, wringing them out and hanging them one by one over the shower curtain rod next to Draco’s shirt.

The water was hot by the time he had finished undressing, and with an annoyed sigh, he reached for the shampoo. His hair was always such an unruly pain after he washed it and this would be the second time this evening he had done just that. When he finished rinsing, he turned the water off, raked the wet hair out of his eyes, and it suddenly occurred to him that everything he had worn or brought with him tonight was wet. Shirt, jeans, socks, boxers – all soaking wet. He had nothing at all to put on, and no towel. “Draco,” he called faintly.

“Hmmm?”

The reply was slightly muffled. A second later, Harry heard water run and then the sound of a toothbrush being tapped on the edge of the sink. Harry cautiously moved the shower curtain back just enough that he could poke his head out. The somewhat blurry sight that met his eyes was so unexpected that he couldn’t help smiling, and completely forgot his own predicament.

Draco was standing by the sink, just putting his toothbrush away in the medicine cabinet, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, with a second towel wrapped around his wet hair like a turban. And as Harry’s eyes traveled down, even though he didn’t have his glasses on, his vision wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t tell that Draco had stunning legs. Every day Harry was finding himself more and more attracted to Draco; even so, he had never imagined that the mere sight of someone’s legs would have this kind of effect on him, as if it was hard to inhale around the warm liquid longing that was filling his chest, making his heart constrict.

Draco turned around and looked at Harry. “All done?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Harry, finding his voice after a few seconds.

“Well, come on then,” said Draco reaching up to undo the towel on his head. He bent over slightly and rubbed his hair vigorously with the towel, then straightened up, shook his head, and his hair fell neatly into a part, perfectly in place.

Harry was stunned. “That’s all you have to do?” he asked, amazed. “Mine takes me forever and it still won’t behave.”

Draco glanced up at Harry’s hair, both amused and intrigued by this bit of information, having decided at one point years ago that Harry must not ever comb his hair at all. “You probably mess with it too much then,” he said. “Come out.”

“Er . . .” said Harry, hoping that his face wasn’t flushed, knowing that it probably was. “I need a towel. And may I . . . borrow a pair of boxers, or pajama bottoms? Unless you know a drying spell – everything I have is soaking wet.”

Draco eyed all of the clothes draped over the shower curtain and suddenly smirked. “The only spell I know like that is the one I use to dry stuff for potions ingredients,” he said with a mischievous light in his eyes. “It tends to make things wither up, so I’m sure it wouldn’t be good for clothes.”

He took a clean towel off the shelf by the sink and held it out. Just out of Harry’s reach. Just long enough to watch Harry turn a lovely shade of red. Then he stepped closer and hung it over Harry’s head. “There’s the towel,” he said, as a relieved Harry disappeared with it back behind the shower curtain. “But there are two things I’m not sharing,” he continued seriously. “Toothbrushes and underwear.”

“I’m not asking to borrow your toothbrush,” said Harry after a few moments, as he stepped out of the shower stall, the towel around his waist. “But, there must be something you can let me wear until my clothes are dry.”

“Hmmm,” said Draco. “I don’t know.” He tilted his head and gave Harry an appraising look. “I kind of like _that_ outfit.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Draco was joking or not, and he was beginning to think he was going to acquire a permanent blush. “Draco, please – ” he started, then Draco grinned at him.

“I’m not promising anything,” he said archly, one eyebrow raised speculatively. “But I’ll go have a look.”

While Draco left to find him something to wear, Harry took his jeans off the curtain rod, fished his small toothbrush and comb from one pocket, and his wand out of another. Luckily the Invisibility Cloak was still out on the chair in Draco’s room and had escaped the unexpected drenching.

“Draco,” he called, as he stepped over to the sink. “May I borrow some toothpaste?” He said the spell to return his comb and toothbrush to their proper size, then set his wand and comb down on the edge of the sink next to his glasses.

Draco appeared in the doorway wearing loose, dark gray, knit pants, carrying something made of black fabric bunched up in one hand. He walked in just in time to see Harry open the medicine cabinet. For a split second, he felt a fleeting stab of alarm, until he remembered that he’d hidden the jar of potion somewhere else.

“Toothpaste?” repeated Harry. “Do you mind if I use some of yours?”

“I don’t mind sharing toothpaste,” he said, quickly recovering his composure over the potion, and just as quickly losing it a little again when he saw that Harry had brought his own toothbrush. “It’s on the second shelf,” he added with a slight catch in his voice as he realized just what that implied – that Harry had come prepared to spend the night, had wanted to stay even before Draco had asked.

He stood back and watched Harry squeeze out toothpaste and start brushing his teeth. Then he couldn’t contain the grin that broke out on his face. Harry be-still-my-heart Potter was standing in Draco’s own bathroom, brushing his teeth, wearing nothing but a towel. The sheer familiarity and intimacy and wonder of it made him a little giddy. When Harry bent to spit toothpaste out in the sink, Draco laughed.

“What?” said Harry, looking over his shoulder with a questioning glance at Draco.

“Nothing,” said Draco, still grinning.

Harry turned back to the sink to rinse his toothbrush. “Sounded like you were laughing at me.”

Draco stepped forward to stand close behind Harry. “No, I wasn’t,” he said. His fingers brushed across the nape of Harry’s neck and out over cool skin, following the curve of his shoulder, then trailed down his back, coming to rest lightly for a moment just at the top of the towel. Then his hand slid around Harry’s waist and he leaned into the other boy, resting his forehead against the back of Harry’s head, burying his face in the mop of still damp, black hair. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he whispered. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Harry turned around within that one armed hug, comb in hand, a glimmer of doubt in his green eyes. But the gray gaze that met his held no ridicule, only warm affection. “You’re sure you weren’t laughing at my skinny ar– . . . er, legs?” he asked with a shy grin.

Draco choked slightly, and grinned back, finding it hard not to laugh at Harry now. “I wasn’t,” he repeated. “But I might be now.”

He pulled his arm from around Harry’s waist and plucked the comb out of Harry’s hand. After taking a couple of expertly executed swipes through Harry’s damp hair, he set the comb down on the sink and stepped back to survey his handiwork. Still grinning, he shook his head, then reached up and tousled Harry’s hair with his hand. “Impossible,” he said. “Leave it alone,” he added with a chuckle, when Harry reached for the comb. “I don’t think it matters what you do to it.” He held out the black item he’d been holding in his other hand. “Here,” he said, “this is all I could find.”

Harry took the offered article of clothing and held it up. It turned out to be a pair of black silk boxers with the Malfoy crest on the hem of one leg. Harry rolled his eyes. But he was in no position to be picky, and judging from the amused smirk on Draco’s face, Draco knew that very well.

“I hardly ever wore those,” said Draco. “My mother bought them – God knows what she could have been thinking – they’re horrible. So I don’t want them back. Keep them if you want – you can consider it an early Christmas present.”

“That is just _so_ touching, Malfoy,” said Harry, balling up the atrocious boxers. “Exactly like the presents I get from home. Ugly . . . used . . . unwanted . . . underwear.”

That was too much even for Draco. He snorted, then broke down laughing. Harry joined in a second later, and in another moment, Draco put his arms around Harry’s neck and they were hugging each other, still laughing. Then Draco was kissing Harry’s face, and Harry turned his head to find Draco’s mouth with his own. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it snuffed out their silliness and rekindled the wanting they had both felt so strongly in the shower.

Draco pulled away slightly first. “I can’t give you your real present for a couple of days yet,” he said, speaking softly against Harry’s mouth.

Harry was taken completely by surprise. He drew back so he could look at Draco. “You got me a Christmas present? A real one?”

Draco smiled. “Of course I did,” he said, and leaned forward to kiss Harry lightly again. “And it’s something nice . . . not underwear.” He let go of Harry and took a small step back. “I’m going to go clean up the potion stuff,” he said, one eyebrow up and a hint of teasing command in his voice, “and you . . . ” He walked to the door, then turned around. “You are going to get dressed and – ” He snickered. “You are going to get that skinny arse out here in five minutes.” He ducked out of the door as Harry threw the boxers at him.

Harry was grinning as he scooped the boxers back up off the floor. Draco was giving him a real Christmas present! Years of receiving next to nothing had left him continually surprised that other people actually wanted to give him presents, but the fact that Draco had, made him feel quite stunned. And touched. And thrilled. He suddenly felt like a five year old getting excited over Christmas gifts. Now he was quite looking forward to Christmas, to spending it with Draco. Ron and Hermione were spending the holidays first at the Burrow and then at the Grangers to announce their engagement, and his other roommates were all going home as well. There was a good chance that he and Draco would practically have the whole castle to themselves.

Smiling, he hurried over to the sink and retrieved his glasses. He checked his hair in the mirror and was amazed to find that whatever Draco had done to it had worked – it wasn’t sticking up outrageously anywhere. Finally he held up the offensive boxers, gave them a wry look, pulled off the towel and put them on. At least they fit. That was a definite improvement over the old used underwear he got from his family.

He found Draco by the fire picking up the last remnants of the ruined potions experiment, the charred ashes and scorch marks left on the stone hearth from the spilled potion that had burned there giving grim testimony to Harry’s narrow escape. Draco had already put the chessboard back in its place on the table, and his huge Potions book had been returned to its proper spot on the bookshelf.

“Need any help?” Harry offered, though the truth was he would much rather stand and watch the deft movements of Draco’s hands and study the way the fire made his skin glow. The drawstring of Draco’s pants was loosely tied, letting the waistband slip a little down toward his hips, which in turn made the hems puddle slightly around his feet, something that Harry found utterly charming.

Draco glanced up, his hands full of packets of potions ingredients. He put them in the box and closed it. “No,” he said somewhat sadly. “It’s a shame about this, though. We almost had it.”

“At least we’ll know not to make that mistake in class,” said Harry wishing he could think of something better to say to lighten Draco’s disappointment.

“It was my mistake,” said Draco as he stood up, the kit box in one hand and the little cauldron in the other. He gave Harry a sidelong look and a small, regretful, yet somehow evocative smile, the color in his face a bit pinker than usual. “I was . . . well . . . rather distracted by certain plans for tonight.” He grinned when Harry colored slightly too. “It’s your move, Harry,” he said, indicating the chess game. “I’ll be right back.”

Harry watched Draco pad off toward the bathroom, then turned back to study the chessboard, the light tone of the last few minutes suddenly lost to him, as the seriousness of what he was about to do rushed over him. He heard Draco open and close a drawer in his wardrobe, heard him a moment later, run water in the bathroom sink to rinse out the cauldron.

Harry really didn’t need any time to think. He knew his move, and he knew what needed to be said. But even though he had already tried to say this to Draco once, somehow it seemed a lot harder tonight. Somehow this afternoon, outside under the vast cold winter sky, it felt much smaller, almost inconsequential. He could have said it cleanly, let it rush out of him on the bitter wind and blow away. Now, here, in the intimacy and warmth of the firelight, now that they were close and alone, there was heat in it, and pressure, and it seemed a huge thing to say. He could feel the smothering unspoken weight of it constricting his throat.

Harry took a deep breath when he heard Draco’s soft footsteps come padding back. There was no way he could delay this any longer, and truly didn’t want to. It was just that . . . God, he knew it was going to be so hard.

An arm slipped around his waist, and a warm body leaned into his side as he put his left arm around Draco’s back. “Pawn to E5,” he said, then moved one of his black fairies ahead one space. “Draco,” he said softly, turning his head to look at the other boy, meeting the expectant gray eyes with resolution. As evenly as he could, he said, “When you asked me if I was a virgin that morning in the hall, and I said at first that I wasn’t . . . that was the truth. I’m not.” He dropped his gaze from Draco’s eyes and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I lied afterwards  
. . . because I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to have to tell you who it was.” He paused again, then dared to look up at Draco’s face. “She hurt me a lot . . . and I . . . I just couldn’t tell you then.”

“I know,” said Draco quietly, tightening his arm around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer. “Or I guessed it was something like that.”

For a couple of heartbeats, Harry was speechless. “You know?” he said at last. He stared at Draco, the sense of stifling pressure he’d felt evaporating as relief and puzzlement flooded through him. “How?”

Draco gave him a small, indulgent, but affectionate, smile. “You’re a terrible liar, Harry. The first thing you said was so obviously a gut reaction that it had to be true, and because of that, I believed your made-up story about all those girls at first. But after you said you didn’t sleep with any of them, and I asked for your answer again, I could tell you were lying about it the second time. That’s when I made up the penalty rule.”

Draco paused, studying Harry for a few seconds before continuing in a slightly more serious tone. “But I also thought it must have been something you wanted to avoid talking about very badly, if you felt you had to lie about it.”

“It was,” said Harry, feeling a little embarrassed that Draco had seen through him so easily, but also pleased and grateful – because Draco had understood so much, even why he had lied, and had never pressed him to talk about it. It really shouldn’t have surprised him, that Draco would have been so perceptive, but . . . “God, Draco,” he said. “I wish I’d known. I’ve really been worried about telling you this.”

“So is this the ‘something important’ you wanted to tell me?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He searched Draco’s eyes, looking for blame or hurt and found only calm. “You don’t mind, then?” he said finally. “That there was someone else first.”

Draco shrugged slightly. “I do,” he said softly, “. . . a little. But I also understand about not wanting to talk about things.” He looked down at the chessboard. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco moved the white Queen backwards one square. “Queen to G3,” he said, as he turned back to meet Harry’s eyes with a question. “I want to know the whole story, Harry. Are you ready to tell me everything? Who it was, and what happened?”

Harry nodded. “I think so . . . I think I need to talk about it now.”

With one arm still firmly around Harry’s waist, Draco reached up one-handed and carefully pulled Harry’s glasses off and set them on the table, before he slipped his other arm around Harry’s waist too, drawing him into a full embrace. His eyes closed for a moment as the other boy’s arms slid around his shoulders and their bodies came together. His mouth brushed Harry’s ear with a light kiss. “Then come to bed with me,” he said, in a hushed voice. “We’ll talk first, but I want you to stay all night. I want you to be here with me in the morning when I wake up.”

Harry turned his face against the side of Draco’s head and closed his eyes, deeply affected by the strength of the needs he felt, needing to console and protect, to touch, to love. Wanting to be consoled and protected in return, wanting to be touched, and more than anything, to be loved. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered, as he kissed the side of Draco’s face.

Draco smiled and moved out of Harry’s encircling arms, catching hold of Harry’s hand and tugging him with gentle insistence away from the table, across the room.

Harry couldn’t help but smile too, even if he still had concerns about the conversation that was about to happen, because there was no doubt at all about how Draco intended for the evening to end, no doubt that Draco still wanted him. And Harry wanted Draco too. So very, very much. He allowed himself to be led to Draco’s bedside, and when Draco pulled back the blankets, Harry slid in, scooting over to the far side to make room so that Draco could get in too.

Draco paused for a moment to do the spell to put out the lamps, then returned his wand to the bedside table and climbed into bed, leaving the hangings open so that they could see each other by the low firelight that still burned in the grate.

They lay on their sides, facing each other for a minute, a momentary awkwardness coming between them. Then Harry sat half-way up and leaned toward Draco. “Draco, may I . . . will you . . .” He started the sentence before he thought, then stopped, realizing he felt rather embarrassed to actually say what he was going to ask.

Draco waited, but when Harry seemed too tongue-tied to continue, he turned onto his back, and reached for Harry, pulling Harry down to lie by his side. He put his arms around Harry, his hands sliding lightly over the smooth skin of Harry’s back. “Will I what?” he asked quietly.

Harry sighed, settling into Draco embrace, then whispered, “Let me do this.”

Draco chuckled softly as Harry snuggled up against him. A second later, he nearly sat straight up in shock. “Good God,” he gasped. “Your feet are freezing!”

It was Harry's turn to laugh. “Not my fault,” he replied, holding tightly to Draco, as if he was afraid Draco might try to get away. “You're the one who turned ice water on me, then made me stand around so long in nothing but a towel, and even longer in nothing but these horrible Malfoy boxers. The least you can do is help warm me up.” Harry nuzzled into Draco's neck. “You are always so warm . . .”

“Oh, I get it," said Draco, pretending insult. "This was all just a ruse to use me as a foot warmer.”

Harry gave one more short, subdued laugh. “No,” he said, then continued in a more serious tone. “This is going to be hard for me . . . I didn’t want to talk to you from over there.”

Draco ran one hand up Harry’s back until his fingers were weaving gently into the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I didn’t want you to be way over there either.” He trailed his fingers slowly down again, over Harry’s shoulder and all the way down his arm, eliciting another sigh from Harry. “C’mon, Potter,” he said in a low, tender, but teasing tone. “Don’t get too comfy here. I’m not warming up your feet for nothing.” He paused a half-second for effect. “So who was this vile seductress who robbed me of your virtue?”

Harry smiled at the presumption of that, then caught Draco’s hand when the trailing fingers got to his wrist, and held on to it, lacing their fingers together. He took a deep breath. “Cho Chang,” he said softly. “I’d had a crush on her for a long time.”

“I remember her,” said Draco thoughtfully. “Ravenclaw Seeker. Not too bad on a broom. Graduated last year.” He paused. “Didn’t you take her to the Yule Ball last Christmas?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I asked her to the first Yule Ball, in fourth year, during the Triwizard Tournament, but she was going out with Cedric. And after he was killed . . . I wasn’t sure I would be able to talk to her again, that I could stand to face her after that.

“But when we came back to school for fifth year, she acted friendly, going out of her way to talk to me. We did some things together – everything was really awkward at first, and not much happened that year. She went out with some other guys too, and I started thinking we were going to end up as just friends. Finally, right at the end of the year, we talked about Cedric, and she cried a lot. When we left for the summer I was convinced that that was all she wanted from me – someone to talk to about what happened to Cedric – and I knew that wasn’t what I wanted.

“Then she sent me a letter over the summer, and that was what changed things. She said she really wanted to be with me, but didn’t want the attention that being my steady girlfriend would bring. And I understood that and didn’t mind it – in fact I agreed with it. I didn’t want the attention either, so we kept our relationship quiet. Only my close friends and hers knew about it. Knowing what I know now, though, it seems she had another reason for wanting to hide it.”

Harry turned onto his back, his head pillowed on Draco’s shoulder, and crossed his arms over his chest. This was where the telling got harder and he felt that now-despised-but-oh-so-familiar ache start in the back of his throat. Draco shifted slightly against him, leaning his head against Harry’s and putting his arms around him, his arms and hands laying over top of Harry’s.

The comfort of this made the ache in Harry’s throat recede a little and he went on. “We would meet different places,” he said, continuing the story in a tighter voice than before, “places where we wouldn’t be seen, or just spend time together in her room. Her roommate knew about us of course and left us alone most of the time. We talked, and kissed a lot, but she never let me go too far. And I was totally caught up in the whole game she was playing. She said she loved me, and I was stupid enough to believe her.”

“Did you love her?” asked Draco very quietly, when Harry stopped talking and didn’t continue.

“I don’t know. I thought I did,” said Harry with a sigh after a moment. “I thought about a lot of things, like getting married, kids even. But it doesn’t matter now. She didn’t love me – it was all a lie . . . all of it was . . . just wrong. She knew we couldn’t stay together. God, Draco, I don’t know how she could have done what she did. None of it makes any sense.

“The last few weeks of school, I was upset that she was graduating, that we would be split up for the summer, and I wanted to know when I could see her again, but she got really distant then, like she wasn’t sure about us anymore, and wouldn’t answer my questions. On the last night before summer break, she asked me to come to her room, and I was hoping she would finally talk to me about it. Instead, there were candles lit everywhere and she said her roommate would be gone all evening. Then she locked the door, and . . . I thought . . . I thought it meant we’d be together . . . that she was sure. And afterwards, she let me lie there with her like an idiot and talk about all my plans for us.

“I left about midnight and said I’d come back in the morning to help her take her trunk downstairs. She kept kissing me goodnight and acting like she didn’t want me to go, and I was so happy that night.” Harry paused and sat up, drawing his knees up to his chest, his arms crossed over the tops of his knees, his head down. “In the morning,” he said bitterly, “when I went back, she told me the truth. That she could never see me again.”

Draco sat up too. “Did she tell you why?”

“Oh, yes,” said Harry, lifting his head so that he could look back at Draco over his shoulder, “she told me why. She was getting married.” He turned away, put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head down into his hands.

“Married?” repeated Draco. He looked stunned for a second, then his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a straight, thoughtful line, as if something had just occurred to him and made sense.

“Right,” said Harry. “The very next week.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I was so shocked, I don’t know, I think I ran. Somehow I ended up in Dumbledore’s office. All I could think of was that I wasn’t even seventeen yet and my life was wrecked, that I’d always be alone and I couldn’t bear it. Right then I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else. I felt so betrayed and stupid. I ended up begging Dumbledore not to make me go home for the summer. I couldn’t get on the train. Couldn’t face anyone. He finally agreed to let me stay. So you see, she made a complete fool of me, pretended to love me, slept with me, and all the time she knew it couldn’t be.”

Draco was silent for several minutes. “I think you’re wrong, Harry,” he said finally.

Harry lifted his head and turned around to look at Draco again, his green eyes dark and overflowing with a mixture of hurt questions and anger. “What do you mean, I’m wrong?”

“I mean I saw her on the train that morning,” said Draco evenly. “I went down, like I always have, to see where you were on the train, and Dumbledore was there instead, explaining to Weasley and Granger that you were going to stay the summer at Hogwarts. He said that he had decided at the last minute that it was too dangerous for you to go stay with your Muggle relatives. I turned around to leave and she was standing right behind me, evidently she had heard everything too. For a couple of seconds, she seemed frozen, like she didn’t even see me, and then she realized I was staring at her, and she turned around and ran back down the corridor.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” said Harry, turning his face away from Draco.

“She was crying, Harry,” said Draco softly. He put one hand on Harry’s shoulder, rubbed his thumb against the tension there. “Maybe you ran off before she could tell you everything.”

“I don’t know what more she could have said that would have made any difference. She was getting married for God’s sake.”

“And maybe she didn’t know about it,” persisted Draco. “Have you ever heard of an arranged marriage? They’re still practiced in the oldest wizarding families, and the tradition used to be that the bride wasn’t told who her intended husband would be until her eighteenth birthday. If her parents kept it secret, she probably had no idea they were planning to follow the old custom.”

Harry turned around in shock, struggling to understand this appalling new concept, searching Draco’s eyes for the truth and finding it in the steady gray honesty that gazed back at him. It was a very long moment before he could speak. “Oh God, Draco,” he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “Her eighteenth birthday was about three weeks before school got out for the summer. She got a long letter from her parents, and right after that she had a huge fight with them. That was why I was upset with her – because after that she acted so distant, but she wouldn’t talk about it.”

“There,” said Draco. “That must have been what it was about. She didn’t know when you started seeing each other.”

“But how could she . . . she should have told me! I wouldn’t have . . . done what I did.”

“And I’m guessing she knew that. Did it ever occur to you that maybe she wanted _you_ to be her first lover, not some stranger? Maybe she even thought she could get her parents to change their minds, so she put off breaking up with you until the last moment. I think she did love you, Harry, and wanted to be with you as long as possible before she . . . had to give you up . . .” Draco trailed off and his face went suddenly very pale, his expression transfixed for the merest moment by realization.

But Harry didn’t notice. He put his face down on his knees. “Oh, no.”

There was an extended stunned silence. Draco sat very still, shaken by the insight initiated by his own words, and by the unexpected deep pain with which that insight had pierced his heart. “She did love you,” he said finally. Then he asked the question that he knew he didn’t want the answer to. “But you regret that you slept with her?”

“Yes.” It was the barest whisper. “Very much. I wouldn’t have, if I had known we couldn’t be together.”

They were silent again for a long, long moment. “That night I found you sitting in the hall, this is what that was really about, wasn’t it? And why you lied to me?” asked Draco, his voice ragged, constricted. “That hurt you so much?”

“Yes.”

Draco turned away and put his feet out of the bed. “I need to think,” he said, and got up.

Harry was jarred from his self-absorption. “Draco . . . ?” He watched Draco walk away from him, to go sit in the chair in front of the hearth. The room was dark, but Harry could see the other boy silhouetted in the firelight.

Draco sat with his arms draped down the length of the arm rests, hands gripping the ends, his face turned away, looking into the fire. Harry watched him with a feeling of dazed emptiness, his heart in his throat, his mind reeling, seesawing first from Draco’s astute and very probably correct revelations about Cho to this very unexpected upset and abrupt departure. Earlier, when Harry had found out that Draco had known all along about his lie and had understood, he had thought that the worst was over, that things were going to be all right, but now . . . now, he didn’t know what to think.

Draco moved, drawing his feet up into the chair, and wrapping his arms around his legs. He put his head down on his knees, his face still turned away from Harry.

Harry felt sick. He sat back and for a moment stared up at the ceiling. Did Draco expect him to get up and come after him? He had consoled Draco last night, had chased after him again this morning to find out what was wrong, and was simply not going to do it again. Not this time, not when he was hurting so badly himself. He needed to know, and know it now, if this relationship was going to be one-sided. Was Draco capable of reaching out to comfort him if he needed it, or would it always be Harry that had to bend, had to take the first steps to close the distances between them?

Harry slid down under the blanket and turned on his side facing away from Draco. Part of him intensely wanted Draco to come back to him this time, part of him acknowledged that it didn’t matter – that what he wanted most intensely was just to be with Draco. He wanted that more than he had ever wanted anything or anyone.

But, oh God, Cho. He could see her in his mind’s eye on the train as Draco must have seen her, her soft brown eyes spilling tears. Her pale golden face turned up, loosened wisps of hair curling around her face. Memories he had buried for months came flooding back. The long black braid that was so thick and supple in his hand. Her laughing smile as he used the tip of that long braid to tickle her nose. The way her head fit under his chin when he held her. The way she had leaned back into him when they flew on his broom together, the way she had pressed herself against him when he had made love to her.

He had never said goodbye. He wanted to hug her and wish her happiness. Wanted to know that she was okay. Grief welled up in him at the thought of how he had left things, of how she must have felt having to face her new life with someone else, and his eyes stung with tears. He sniffed and swallowed, fighting the ache in his throat. He should have been past this.

* * * * * 

Draco gazed blindly at the fire, hugging his knees, thinking through what Harry had just said, trying to reason out what he should do. He heard the blankets rustle and looked up to see that Harry had lain down and turned away. Draco stared at him for a long time. Even the curve of bare shoulder and back that showed beneath the edge of the blanket, and the vulnerable dip in the nape of Harry’s neck where Draco hadn’t kissed him yet and wanted to, the curl of black hair that stuck up where his head met the pillow, all of these things filled him with a yearning so intense as to be painful.

There were only four days left before he went home for Christmas, only four days left to be with Harry before he had to act on his plan for his father, and he was already denying himself so much. He felt heartsick when he thought of Harry asking him if they could work together. He honestly couldn’t imagine anything he would rather do than to be Potions master to Mediwizard Harry; it would have involved him on so many levels in the subject he loved most, with the person he loved. It would have been perfect.

And was perfectly impossible. He knew how doubtful it was that he could ever have that future, and had accepted the things he could never have. But he had not intended to deny himself everything. _Do you regret that you slept with her?_ he had asked, and the answer had broken his heart. _“Yes. Very much. I wouldn’t have, if I had known we couldn’t be together.”_ He did not want to deny himself this too. Oh, God, not this too.

Draco had wanted Harry to love him without ever really believing that it would happen. After all, he was not inclined to indulge himself in flights of pure fantasy. Still he had wanted it. Wanted it intensely, wanted it selfishly, without thinking of the consequences to Harry. Nor had he envisioned the depth of his feelings now that they were involved.

When he had first made his plan, with Harry only an unattainable desire, something never to be had, it had been easier to plan to give him up. To give up something you never realistically thought you would possess, how hard was that? Yet now, Draco felt it would wrench his soul apart to be separated from Harry. And it was clear that Harry felt the same, had said so that very morning. Draco had felt and accepted the indisputable truth in the words Harry had spoken. _“What I want is for us to be together, more than anything.”_

It was unthinkable now, that what he was planning to do would almost certainly separate them forever, and that there was no way out. But the unthinkable was fact, and so, for Harry’s sake, he should not let the two of them get closer.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, resolved to do just that. Harry hadn’t moved since he had lain down, so Draco thought he was probably asleep.

Draco buried his face in his arms again. It was just as well, he could sleep in the chair, and they could talk more in the morning. Then Harry sniffed, and Draco heard it, and just as it had that first night in the hall, that soft sniffle melted his resistance, muddled his clarity about what it was he shouldn’t do. He was moved by concern, and couldn’t resist the compelling longing that brought him to his feet, drawing him inexorably back to Harry.

Draco got back into bed and slid over next to Harry to lie on his side behind him, slipping one arm around him to pull him close. Then he kissed that tender spot at the nape of Harry’s neck. “I thought you were asleep,” he whispered as he laid his face against the back of Harry’s head.

* * * * * 

Harry lay still for a moment, relief and then quiet exultation pouring into him through Draco’s presence and touch. His fears that Draco wouldn’t be willing to comfort him seemed completely unfounded now. Draco _had_ come back, was holding him, kissing him, obviously not upset. He turned over to face Draco, and one tear trickled down his cheek. He wiped it away impatiently. “Sorry,” he whispered, and sniffled again. “Looks like it’s my turn for this tonight.”

“One tear, Potter,” said Draco with tender scorn. “That hardly counts as a turn compared to the flood _I_ made last night.”

Harry smiled a small rueful smile. “I did that to Dumbledore. That's why he let me stay here last summer.”

“You _cried_ in Dumbledore’s office?”

“Buckets,” said Harry with another small sniff.

“Good lord, Harry. I guess _that_ counts.”

Harry wiped his eyes dry. “I really thought I was over this,” he murmured apologetically. He took a deep breath. “I _am_ over this,” he said firmly. He put his hand on Draco’s shoulder and gently pushed the other boy down onto his back, then sat up part way on one elbow, leaning over him. “Please believe me,” said Harry earnestly, looking down into the velvety gray eyes of the boy who was about to become his lover. “I’m not sorry at all that it’s over with her. I don’t want her back. It was never right . . . not like this.” 

Draco’s arms came up around him, drawing him closer. Harry slid his hands beneath Draco’s shoulders, shifting his weight over and onto his elbows on both sides of Draco so that he was lying almost fully on top of him. “What I felt for her isn’t anything compared to how I feel with you – even the first time you kissed me,” said Harry softly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

He paused. Draco was gazing up at him in a way that made it hard to remember what he still needed to say. “It’s just that after what you told me tonight,” he said after a moment, “I feel bad for leaving things with her the way I did. And what she did really hurt. I thought . . . ” His breath caught as Draco’s hands trailed lightly up his back and arms tightened around him. “I thought it was supposed to mean forever,” he finished in an almost whisper.

Then he couldn’t speak any more because Draco was pulling him down into a kiss and he could feel Draco’s heart beating beneath him like an echo of his own pounding heart. He’d said everything he could with words anyway. What was left to say between them, and there were still so many things he needed to say, were things that had to be said without words, with gentle hands and quickened heartbeats, with breathless sighs and kisses. There was nothing to be done then but give in and fall, give in to the soft warm mouth that was rising to meet his. He kissed Draco deeply, and lost himself in the rightness of it, in the growing passion he felt, in knowing that there were no more secrets now to come between them.

Draco held on to Harry tightly, letting himself be lost too for just this once, allowing himself and Harry this one long, almost timeless moment of loving, reveling in the feeling of Harry in his arms, of soft skin under his hands, of Harry’s weight pressing him down, holding him securely in the place he most longed to be. When Harry finally, slowly, pulled back from kissing him, Draco looked up into those emerald eyes and knew he could never let this happen again. They were too close, too near the edge of being able to stop even now. “Do you still believe what you said?” Draco asked in a low breathless voice. “About it meaning forever?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Harry. “I would wish it did.” Harry dropped his head and pressed his lips to the hollow of Draco’s throat. His tongue flickered out to taste the racing pulse that beat under Draco’s warm skin. “With you, I want it to.” He felt Draco’s arms tighten around him and one hand come up to stroke his hair.

“If that happens between us, Harry,” said Draco very quietly, “I promise it will mean forever for me.”

Harry kissed the delicate edge of Draco’s collarbone, then lifted his head in disbelief as the words Draco had just spoken registered. “What do you mean . . . if?” he asked haltingly.

Draco hesitated, feeling as though the next words he had to say would have to be torn unwilling from his mouth before he could utter them. But he had to. He reached up to brush the hair off Harry’s forehead, and ran the edge of his thumb lightly over Harry’s scar. Finally, he looked up again into those adored green eyes, eyes that were full of longing overlaid with confusion. “I mean I think we should wait,” he said at last.

Harry gazed back at Draco, struggling with the totally unexpected words that had just been said, not able to quite comprehend this complete reversal of Draco’s intentions. Those shadowed silver-gray eyes held something he couldn’t quite decipher. “That’s definitely not what you thought earlier,” he said, hurt welling up in his throat. He shifted as if to move away, but Draco’s arms tightened around him, not letting him go.

“I just want to wait,” Draco repeated, “until the end of the game.”

Harry stared down at him, still hurt and perplexed, trying to understand. “Will you tell me why – why you’ve changed your mind?”

Draco didn’t answer right away.

“Is it because I – ”

“No.” Draco cut him off, his voice subdued, but final.

Harry buried his face in the curve of Draco’s shoulder. The intense intimacy of how Draco’s body felt under his was interfering with his breathing. “I want you,” he whispered.

“I want you too,” was the whispered response against his ear. “But . . . we can’t . . . yet.”

Harry turned his face to the side, away from Draco and tried to breathe normally. Tried to think. Draco was stroking his hair again, and that was comforting and calming, unreservedly caring. He tried to think back through the things he had said about Cho – it had to be something he’d said that had caused Draco to change his mind. What had he said just before Draco got up to sit by the fire?

But he was too muddled with all the conflicting emotions he was feeling to sort it out right now. All he could do was respect Draco’s request, even if he didn’t understand why, and give him the same level of consideration Draco had given him such a short time ago by not pressing him to talk about it.

But there was no way he was going to go back to his own room. “I don’t want to leave tonight, Draco,” he said with determination. “I want to stay with you.” He felt Draco take a deep breath, as if with relief, and the arms that were holding him so tightly loosened.

“I didn’t say anything about you going, did I?” said Draco softly against Harry’s hair.

Harry sighed and shifted over off Draco and turned to face him, his eyes asking the obvious question, needing to be sure of the answer.

Draco cupped one hand behind Harry’s head and pulled him into a gentle kiss. “I want you to stay,” he said firmly.

“All night?”

“All night.”

With another small sigh to relieve his frustration, Harry accepted both invitation and limitation, and settled down against Draco’s side with his head on the other boy’s shoulder. Firm arms came around him, and after a time, the rhythmic rise and fall of Draco’s breathing began to relax and calm him. He could feel the tension in Draco ebbing away too, and the quieter, tranquil feelings he had felt when he had held Draco asleep the night before began to surface again.

Draco’s hand was wandering idly back and forth along his arm, then over his shoulder, up his neck and down the back of his head – as if Draco were randomly tracing the lines and curves of him, as if every contour and every stroke was being committed into a memory of touching. The feeling was comforting and breathtakingly gentle. Harry could never remember being touched that way before.

He lay still, watching the movement of Draco’s hand through half-closed eyes, soaking in the pleasure of it, hating to fall asleep. But the soothing caresses and motion were making him drowsy, and he felt himself slipping, falling heart-first into that intimate sense of oneness with the boy who held him.

The awareness of a low humming vibration and the dissolving of boundaries that he had experienced last night came back to him, familiar and welcome now, weaving him into an altered state of mind, a place of deep security, peace and openness. From this state, just before Harry drifted off, he saw the most enchanting vision. Tiny translucent crystal-white sparks of light flashed and faded, trailing halos and tails of soft glowing radiance, swirling, then misting away, following the movement of Draco’s hand. He sighed again, contented this time, and fell asleep with a soft smile.

* * * * * 

Draco shifted a little, getting comfortable around the body that had suddenly gone heavy in his arms, realizing that Harry had fallen asleep. _Damn you, Harry Potter_ , he thought, not for the first time, but never before had he thought it with this mixture of tenderness and sorrow. _Why did you have to make this so wonderful? Why did you have to make it so hard?_ For a long moment, he studied Harry’s face, a face that in sleep seemed both childish and strong, and oh so lovely. He smiled a little as Harry’s words from that morning came back to him. _I wonder if you have any idea how lovely_ you _are when you’re asleep?_ he thought.

He’d been petting Harry, letting his hand run lightly over the other boy’s skin, up his back, through his hair, down his arm, not able to get enough of touching him. His hand stilled now, coming to rest on one smooth shoulder. Holding Harry like this was filling him with such a sense of completion, as if every barrier between them had melted away. It surprised Draco that he could feel this; it was entirely unexpected that he could feel satisfied, fulfilled even, just to hold this sleeping person in his arms, to know that he was capable of feeling joined in this way with someone else, that he could feel this intense level of belonging and love. He had wanted it, but had never believed it would come to him.

And he understood something about Harry now that he never had before, that Harry had been as desperate to belong to someone as he himself had been – that not all the adulation and fame in the world, nor even his friends, close as they were, would ever quite fill the empty place in Harry’s soul, just as no one had ever done for Draco. No one else made Draco feel the way Harry did, had ever touched him emotionally or physically the way Harry had. There was no one else he could accept as his equal, or give himself to without reservation. And just the same, Harry had told him so tonight – no one had ever made Harry feel the way Draco did. Draco knew, if things had been different, that he would have wanted to drown in the joy of that knowledge.

Harry stirred slightly in his arms and Draco reached up to smooth down a lock of tousled black hair. He loved touching Harry this way. He wanted every possible remaining moment with him – it was all he could have, all he had left, and he was still selfish, knowing there was only so much he could deny himself, even for Harry’s sake. He hated what he had done tonight, both for himself and for Harry.

It had hurt so much, had taken every bit of his determination to hold back from loving Harry tonight. He ached inside from wanting him. But Harry had accepted his change of mind, and Draco was resolved to stand firm on this one thing. He had no intention of letting the chess game finish before he went home for Christmas, no intention of hurting Harry so much more by becoming his lover when he knew how things would almost certainly end. But he had seen the hurt in those emerald eyes tonight and couldn’t bear the thought of denying him anything else.

They had four days left. And Draco decided now, that for these four days, he would give Harry all that he could. He would put his worries for the future aside and live as if they would be together forever. He would give Harry that much and hold onto the hope that when it was over, Harry would somehow eventually understand and would not hate him, would maybe even forgive him.

Deep regret tiptoed around the corners of his mind, but he ignored it. He would try not to dwell on these things, would not ruin their last days together with any other senseless attempts to keep them apart, or let Harry see his doubts and pain. If he was the one who hurt now, it didn't matter, because later it would be Harry, and that did matter. God, so soon, it would be Harry. And he wondered how everything could be so right and yet so wrong at the very same time.

Draco laid his cheek against the soft black hair. No, he would not worry about anything bad now. Those things would come in their own time, soon enough. For now, Harry was his – was here in his bed, in his arms, and wanted him.

He kissed the top of Harry’s head, pulled the blankets up around them, then closed his eyes and let himself slip into the vast sense of peace and belonging that always seemed to well up inside him when he quieted his mind and let himself lie still with this boy he loved. And if he had ever had the smallest doubt that he was in love with Harry Potter, there was no room for doubt now at all. The emotion that filled him in this moment, just before he fell asleep, was profound and absolute. He took a deep breath and pulled Harry closer, surrendering to it with all of his soul.

* * * * * 

When Harry opened his eyes, he was looking down, and it seemed that a grim ghostly vapor, filled with hazy pinpoints of light, was swirling around his feet. After a moment, his vision cleared and he saw that eddies of tiny snowflakes were blowing on the wind, drifting past his ankles, tearing and raveling away into a gauzy white mist, glittering with icy uncertainty, reflecting the dim light that surrounded him.

The wind was bitterly cold and Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He shivered slightly, then started violently as the glowering, overcast sky split asunder with blinding light and a splintering sizzling CA-RACK! The air surged with the acrid smell of electricity. A deep, deafening rumbling rolled out of the leaden, darkening clouds. He looked around, his heart pounding, trying to understand where he was, trying to remember how he had come there, why he was alone.

The place where he stood was rough and craggy. Sharp, jagged rocks, dark and slick with ice, jutted skyward all around him. It was a place of some height, and he realized suddenly that he could see with increasing clarity, as if the snowy fog was receding from him, exposing the forbidding landscape below. And what emerged from that soulless white mist seized his heart as if a fist of ice had plunged into his chest. He gasped for breath, disbelief and horror threatening to overcome him.

Legion upon legion of dark forces spread out before him, the army of the Dark Lord revealed. The scar on his forehead throbbed with pain as one cloaked, hooded figure stepped to the fore, flanked on both sides by files of Death Eaters in their faceless masks. Ranks of dementors stood behind them, a tide of loathsome creatures following in their wake. The Dark Lord raised his arms and a haunting wail arose from the mass of hideous throats, rattling and keening, rising on the bitter wind.

Harry stood unmoving, numb and desolate, frozen to the spot with despair. There were so many and he was so, so alone. He could not, not ever, stand against this. How could they expect him to . . . even try? He choked back a moan. But he had to, didn’t he? They were counting on him. Him alone. Fighting his rising fear, gathering the rags of his hopelessness into a thin fabric of desperation, he reached for his wand . . . and a hand slipped into his, warm, slender, firm and reassuring. For the briefest moment he experienced a surge of power, an exultant in-flowing of strength and confidence – 

“Harry . . .”

* * * * * 

“Harry . . .” A slender hand slipped reassuringly into his, another hand grasped him firmly, but gently, by the shoulder and was shaking him slightly. “Harry, wake up. Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

Harry startled awake, still vaguely panicked, his heart racing, but knowing immediately from the now welcome familiarity of the touch of those hands that he was safe. He took a deep shuddering breath of relief as the warmth of the bed he lay in coalesced into reality around him, and he opened his eyes. It was still the middle of the night, he guessed, because except for the dim light of the dying fire, the room was almost completely dark. He could just see Draco, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, leaning up on one elbow, gazing back at him, his face clouded with worry.

“You were dreaming,” said Draco again, softly.

“I was having a nightmare,” said Harry in an undertone, scrubbing at the scar that still twinged uncomfortably.

“Does that happen often?” asked Draco lying back down.

“No,” said Harry. “Hasn’t for a while.” Draco was looking up at the ceiling and didn’t respond. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” Harry added, feeling miserable for disturbing the other boy.

Draco closed his eyes. After a moment he said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It was . . .” began Harry, then stopped as he realized that most of the vision was fading, leaving a jumbled memory of cold and fear and dark cloaked figures. “It was . . . Voldemort’s army . . . and I was alone. That’s all I can remember.”

Draco was silent for some time. Harry was beginning to believe he had fallen back to sleep when he spoke again. “I wish I could forget mine so easily,” he said quietly.

“You have nightmares?” asked Harry, his voice hushed.

“Not this year so much. Last year was pretty bad.” Draco turned his head so that he was looking at Harry. “That’s how Snape found out what my father was doing to me. Crabbe and Goyle ran to him the first night it happened. He made me tell him the dream. The next day, he gave me a dreamless sleep potion, and that helped, but it made me groggy the next day, so I didn’t take it every night.”

“Was it about the Cruciatus Curse?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell, Draco,” said Harry in a low, taut voice. “I think your father should be locked up in Azkaban for doing that to you.”

“Yes,” said Draco, barely audible, his voice cold and hard as ice. “He should be.” And there didn’t seem to be anything else to say after that.

* * * * * 

They woke up late in the morning, lying together in pretty much the same tangled-together position in which they had eventually fallen asleep after Harry’s nightmare. They had never closed the bed drapes, so sunlight was pouring in through the window next to the bed in a most annoying manner.

Draco disentangled himself and sat up, stretching. “Hey,” he mumbled, running one hand through his hair.

Harry squinted up at him and decided that morning-Draco, with no shirt on and his hair all rumpled from sleeping, was something he liked the look of very, very much. “Hey,” he said quietly, a little uncertain of how things stood between them this morning. “What time is it?”

“Late,” said Draco, seemingly unable to get out more than one syllable at a time.

“We haven’t missed breakfast, have we?” said Harry, rousing himself and sitting up too.

“No.”

Harry looked over at Draco, a small amused glint in his green eyes. “Are you always this cheerful in the morning?” he asked.

Draco looked back and gave Harry a half-smirk. “Not always,” he said. “Sometimes I can be rather cross.”

“Hmm,” said Harry, with a bit of a grin, feeling reassured by the teasing tone of Draco’s response. “Not a morning person, are you?” He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. “Well, that makes two of us.”

“Funny,” said Draco, turning around to sit cross-legged facing him. “I thought you would be.”

“No, not me,” said Harry with a sigh. “If it wasn’t for Ron, I might miss breakfast every day.” He opened his eyes, looked up at Draco and their eyes met in unspoken understanding. “You know I need to tell him about us,” said Harry. “This morning – at breakfast.” He paused. “And I want to tell my roommates too . . . if that’s okay with you.”

“I guess I don’t mind,” said Draco slowly, “if you think they have to know.”

Harry sat up. He reached out and gently brushed the blond fringe back from Draco’s forehead, smoothing it back behind the other boy’s ear. “It isn’t that they _have_ to know,” said Harry softly. He let his fingers trail through that fine silky hair to the back of Draco’s neck as he leaned forward to kiss the blond lightly, sweetly, on the mouth. “I _want_ to tell them,” he said seriously. “I want them to know I’m with you.” Harry paused, looking into Draco’s eyes. “I was hoping you would be with me when I tell them.”

“If you want me to be there, I will be,” said Draco quietly, returning the kiss with another, pleased and touched by Harry’s words. Then, with a small impish smile, he added, “I’m sure it will be very entertaining.” He kissed Harry again quickly, effectively cutting off any response to that last comment. “What else are we planning to do today?” he asked finally, when they pulled apart.

Harry gave him a slightly worried look. “I’ve been planning for several weeks to go into Hogsmeade today,” he said, then paused. “I need to go by myself, though,” he continued somewhat regretfully. “I’m going to be doing my Christmas shopping. But we could meet later – have lunch together at the Three Broomsticks if you want.”

“Actually, that’s perfect,” said Draco. “I have some personal chores to see to this morning myself.” Then his eyes lit up. “But hey – why can’t I come shopping with you?”

“Well, because . . .” said Harry flushing slightly, “you’ll see . . .”

“Aha!” said Draco, twining his arms around Harry’s neck. “So this shopping trip includes getting a present for me?”

“Yes,” said Harry with a laugh.

Draco smiled that full genuine smile that always made Harry’s heart skip several beats. “I’ll let you go alone then,” he said. “This time.”

Harry grinned back at him, marveling at the way that smile could turn his bones to jelly, and suddenly he had an idea. “Draco,” he said. “It’s my turn in the chess game, isn’t it?”

“It is. Why?”

“Save my place here,” said Harry, still grinning as he slipped out of Draco’s loose embrace. He got out of bed and tiptoed across the cold stone floor to the chessboard. “Pawn to D4,” he said as he moved the piece. He picked up Draco’s captured Pawn and held it up with a smirk so that Draco could see it. “Can you smile like that again?” he asked.

“I think so,” said Draco, tilting his head, puzzled. “If I’m looking at you.”

Harry tossed the fairy up in the air and caught it nimbly. He set it on the table, then hurried back to bed, sliding in under the blankets next to Draco. “Then I have a plan,” he said, and explained what he had in mind. “But we have to be very late to breakfast, so that everyone else besides my roommates has left. I don’t think we want any more of an audience.” He paused for a moment. “Will you do it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Draco, mulling it over. “But if we’re that late, what makes you think your roommates will still be there?”

“I didn’t come back to my room last night,” said Harry knowingly. “They’ll be there.”

Draco chuckled and lay down on his back, stretching out with his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. “Ah,” he said, understanding. “That’s why we . . . They’ll be waiting to see who you come in with.”

“Exactly,” said Harry, laying down on his side facing Draco. “They really are quite predictable.” Very stealthily, he crept his hand toward Draco under the blanket.

Draco harrumphed softly. “I used to think that about you.”

Harry grinned. His fingers connected ever so lightly with the bare skin of Draco’s side just above the waistband of his pants. “Changed your mind then, have you?” Harry slowly trailed his fingers up Draco’s ribs.

“Yes.” The word was half sharp intake of breath and half squeak. But Draco didn’t move a muscle.

Harry grinned wider. That squeak might have been the most adorable thing he had ever heard. But now Harry was determined to make Draco admit he was ticklish. He trailed his fingers back down to Draco’s waist and then across Draco’s stomach.

Draco turned his face away, but Harry could see that he was biting his lower lip. Still, he was not letting any other reaction show. In fact, it looked like Draco was holding his breath. Harry realized that if he was going to win this battle, he was going to have to intensify the attack. With a bit of a thrill at his own daring, Harry’s tickling fingers traveled back to Draco’s side at his waist, then very slowly moved down over the waistband of Draco’s pants, down toward his hip bone.

Suddenly Draco shot up and grabbed Harry’s hand. “God, Harry,” he gasped. “Stop! I give in.”

Harry rolled onto his back, laughing. “Admit it,” he said triumphantly.

“Okay,” said Draco, placing Harry’s hand firmly, but playfully, onto Harry’s chest as if to get it far away from himself. “I admit I’m just the smallest bit ticklish.”

Harry laughed again. “And what else?”

Draco laughed that low sultry laugh. He lay down on his stomach next to Harry and propped himself up on his elbows. “I absolutely refuse to say I liked it,” he said with the tone of someone whose dignity had been deeply wounded, but the smirky grin on his face said otherwise. Then his voice and expression softened. “But I do like this,” he said. “Waking up with you.”

Harry studied the warmth in those gray eyes thoughtfully, hesitating to ask the question that had been in the back of his mind all morning, that Draco’s last words had brought to the fore. “Does that mean we can do it again tomorrow?” he asked quietly after a moment. “May I stay with you tonight?”

Draco returned Harry’s gaze seriously, a little surprised by the question. He’d actually been half-afraid that Harry was going to be angry with him this morning and wouldn’t want to spend the night a second time. “Even after the mess I made of things last night?” he asked finally.

Harry colored slightly but met Draco’s eyes steadily. “I wish you would tell me what happened last night. I know it was something I said . . . and I’m sure if we talk about it . . .” His words faltered as Draco looked down, breaking the eye contact between them.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” said Draco very softly, sadly, “for what happened last night. I just want to wait a little longer . . . and I can’t explain it yet.”

“Never mind,” said Harry, still very puzzled by Draco’s attitude, but glad that they had at least talked about it this much. “I didn’t mean to push you. If you want to wait ‘til the end of the chess game, that’s okay. That doesn’t change how I feel, or that I want to be with you.” He laid one hand on Draco’s arm. “I would like to stay with you tonight – if you want me to.”

Draco looked up, his eyes clear and velvety gray, like rain-washed skies. “I want you to,” he said simply. “Very much.”

“Okay then,” said Harry, with a wistful, but warm smile. “But no more Potions practice,” he added, gently teasing, relieving the slight tension the previous conversation had built between them. “And no more ice baths!”

“But Harry,” said Draco, with a hint of a grin and a light laugh, “that was fun.”

Harry laughed too. “C’mon you,” he said. “If we don’t hurry up, we’re going to miss breakfast completely.”

They piled out of bed and got ready in a rush. Harry, thanks to the castle’s house-elves, found all of his clothes dried and neatly folded on top of Draco’s trunk at the foot of the bed. And Draco, to his delight, found his beloved shirt hanging in his wardrobe in perfectly restored condition. Harry retrieved his wand from the bathroom sink, then collected his glasses and the Invisibility Cloak from the table and chair by the hearth. “Ready?” he called to Draco who was in the bathroom, as he pulled on his shoes.

“Ready,” said Draco, coming out and meeting Harry at the door, nodding seriously in agreement to the unspoken question in Harry’s green eyes about what they were about to do. Then suddenly, his expression brightened and he broke into a grin.

“What?” said Harry, looking at him suspiciously.

“I just realized what a good morning this is,” said Draco archly. “First I get to wake up with you and then I get to torment Weasley and assorted Gryffindors at breakfast. And later I can try to guess what you got me for Christmas.”

“No, you can’t,” said Harry firmly. “And you’re not going to torment anyone.”

“Harry,” said Draco, raising one eyebrow, his expression the picture of innocence. “I won’t be doing it intentionally. But what do you think is going to happen when you tell them who you spent the night with?”

Harry made a wry face. “I know,” he said. “Just promise me you won’t make it any worse. Especially with Ron. If you’ll stay calm, and not react to him, things will go a lot easier.”

“Hmm,” replied Draco with a doubtful look. “I don’t know that anything will make this easier, but I’ll try.” He put his hands on Harry’s waist and leaned closer to kiss him. “For luck,” he said. “I’ll follow you down.”

“Okay,” said Harry, feeling hopeful and anxious and rather excited all at once. Draco let go of him and he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head. “See you down there,” he said with a grin, then slipped quietly out the door. And even though there was sure to be a scene, Harry was quite looking forward to this.

* * * * * 

Harry walked into the Great Hall eager for the truth to be told. He honestly didn’t believe that any of his friends would be completely opposed to his new relationship with Draco, not even Ron. He did expect Ron to take it badly, but he agreed with Hermione’s assessment of his best friend, that Ron would eventually come around. _If_ Harry was happy – and he _was_ happy.

He almost laughed when he saw that he’d been right – all four of his roommates, plus Hermione and Ginny, were sitting in a group at the Gryffindor table, waiting. The rest of the hall was practically deserted, as he’d planned. He sat down casually in his usual place next to Ron, trying hard not to grin, but failing completely, which spoiled the whole pretense of nonchalance he was trying to achieve.

Several voices piped up at once. “Harry!”

Seamus, seated across the table between Dean and Neville, gave him a sly pointed look. “And just where were you _all_ night?” he teased. “And don’t try to tell us you were playing chess _this_ time.” Everyone looked expectantly at Harry, even Hermione, though she had an I-know-the-secret smile on her lips. Ron was looking stern, and Ginny, Neville and Dean looked like they might break into giggles at any moment.

Harry shrugged and very slowly proceeded to dish up his breakfast. He wanted their undivided attention so that Draco could sneak in unnoticed. He was also stalling until the other few students in the room finished and left the Great Hall. “I _was_ playing chess,” he said, after a minute of agonizingly drawn out syrup pouring. He took a bite of pancakes and chewed thoughtfully. “But not _all_ night.”

Seamus rolled his eyes.

Ron folded his arms over his chest. “So are you going to tell us now or not?” he asked somewhat crossly.

Harry saw Draco edge in the door and slip over to his seat at the Slytherin table. “Yes,” he said, turning to face Ron, giving him a serious answer. “I’m going to tell you. I’ll tell you everything, but let me eat first.”

“Everything?” chortled Seamus, grinning, leaning forward over the table toward Harry. “This is going to be good – ! Ow!” He sat back and reached down to rub his battered shin. “Who kicked me?”

Ginny giggled and Hermione smiled innocently.

Seamus grinned at them. “You girls can’t fool me,” he said knowingly. “You want to hear _everything_ too. Just like the rest of us.”

Harry ate a few more bites of his breakfast, and watched a pair of Ravenclaw fifth years get up from their seats. They were the last two other students in the room, so he waited until they had walked out, then gave in to all the impatient looks he was getting and cleared his throat. He felt a little fluttery in his stomach, nervous excitement and anticipation welling up in him now that the moment of truth had come.

“Okay,” he said, trying to look serious but still not completely able to suppress his grin. “This is going to come as a bit of a surprise to everyone . . .” He glanced around at the intent, expectant faces of all his friends. “I . . . well . . . I’ve just found out something about myself . . . something I would never have guessed . . .” Harry paused again, then went on in a much quieter, more confidential tone. His friends leaned in closer to hear him. “It seems I have a kind of secret magical power,” he said, “and I’ve been dying to try to use it all morning.”

They all stared at him, completely perplexed.

Hermione spoke up first. “What are you talking about, Harry?”

“Sounds like stalling to me,” complained Seamus.

“Yes, it does,” agreed Ron. “Or he’s gone mental on us again.”

“No, now listen,” said Harry. “This will be good. I just need someone to test it on.” He let his eyes stray over to the Slytherin table. “Aha,” he said in a low conspiratorial voice, gazing pointedly across the room. “Perfect.”

Dean, Seamus, and Neville all twisted around in their seats and everyone now stared at Draco Malfoy. Draco was eating his breakfast, calmly reading the Daily Prophet, seemingly completely unaware that seven pairs of Gryffindor eyes were riveted on him.

“When did _he_ come in?” muttered Ron.

“Harry?” questioned Hermione, obviously baffled by Harry’s behavior. “What’s going on?”

“Just a little demonstration,” replied Harry. “I believe that I can make Malfoy do something none of you have ever seen him do before – from clear over here.”

Hermione gave him a puzzled frown. “Harry, you can’t cast spells on other students,” she said in her best Head Girl Voice. “You know it’s not allowed.”

Harry simply grinned at her. “I said it was magic. I didn’t say it was a spell.” He turned back to look at Draco. “Just watch,” he said. “It may take a few minutes. I have to wait for him to look up – this takes eye contact . . .”

A couple of seconds ticked by, as all the Gryffindors held their breath, waiting for Malfoy to stop reading . . .

Draco turned the page. He scanned that page for a leisurely moment, then turned another, then a couple more. At last he closed and folded the paper. He laid it next to his plate and finally looked up. Straight at Harry.

Harry smiled at him.

Draco tilted his head to one side, a tiny smirk on his lips. Then he smiled back. His most real, most genuine, most heart-stopping smile ever.

There was a collective gasp of breath from the Gryffindor table.

“Is that not the most breathtaking and wonderful thing you’ve ever seen,” said Harry softly, mesmerized.

“Holy Saints and Mother of God!” whispered Seamus.

“What?” demanded Ron.

“I don’t believe it!” said Seamus still awestruck. “Harry’s thawed the Ice King.”


	11. Part II — The Game — Chapter 11

  


_Refugee, total shit_  
 _Is how I’ve always seen us_  
 _Not a help you’ll admit_  
 _To agreement between us_  
 _There’s no deal, partner_  
 _Who’s your real partner?_  
 _Could there be just a chance_  
 _That you’ve got some heavy clients?_

Lyrics from “The Deal (No Deal)” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Seamus’s pronouncement stunned everyone to silence.

“The Ice King?” repeated Hermione after a moment.

Seamus turned back to look at her with a gleeful smirk. “That’s what the Slytherin girls call Malfoy because he acts so cold to them.”

“And just exactly how do you know _that?_ ” said Hermione, frowning in disapproval.

“I . . . oh!” said Seamus, somehow managing to look both smug and sheepish at the same time. “Er . . . never mind. I just always figured it was because he couldn’t stand _them_. I mean who could?” Then he grinned over at Ron. “But maybe it’s because Malfoy just doesn’t like _girls_.”

“Have _you_ gone mental now, Seamus?” said Ron with alarm. “What on earth are you saying?”

“That Harry told the truth last night when he said he doesn’t have a _girl_ friend! Just look at him.”

Ron looked at Harry’s smitten, still-smiling face and then across the room at Draco who was now grinning fetchingly at Harry. He turned a deep shade of red. “You mean . . . ”

“I was right!” crowed Seamus. “Harry has a _boy_ friend. And it’s Malfoy!”

Ron turned back to Harry. He grabbed Harry’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “Harry!” he said, his voice desperate. “Tell me that’s not true!”

But Harry wasn’t listening, or rather, he was barely hearing the conversation going on around him because he was lost in a haze of entrancement. He was completely caught up in Draco’s adorable smile until Ron, losing his temper when Harry didn’t answer, shoved him, and Harry, since he wasn’t paying attention and was sitting at the very end of the bench, slid sideways, lost his balance and fell off onto the floor with a jarring thump.

“Ron!” Hermione jumped up to see if Harry was okay.

Harry looked up at his best friend with a surprised frown, his glasses knocked askew by his abrupt meeting with the floor. “What the hell . . . Ron?” he faltered. “What’d you do that for?”

“Stop staring at that . . . that . . . _snake_ . . . and answer me! Is it true? That talk we had? You meant _him!?_ ”

“Yes,” said Harry firmly. “I meant him.”

“You spent the night with Malfoy!?” said Ron incredulously, suddenly standing. He stared down at Harry, his whole body rigid with outrage.

“Yes, Ron,” said Harry in a tone that left no room for doubt. “I did.” He started to get to his feet, but then someone was there beside him and a hand was reaching down to help him up. He took Draco’s offered hand and stood up facing the Slytherin. Draco didn’t let go of his hand, twining their fingers together instead.

“You okay?” asked Draco in a low voice, concern and anger in his eyes as he reached up with his free hand to straighten Harry’s glasses.

“Fine,” said Harry. He turned to face Ron, his face becoming very solemn. “I know you’re shocked,” he said contritely, “but there wasn’t any easy way to tell you this.”

“You spent the night with _Malfoy!_ ” sputtered Ron. “Shocked doesn’t even _begin_ to describe how I feel!”

“Ron,” said Harry, his tone grave, as he took in his friend’s furious, horrified expression. “I meant it when I said I was serious about this relationship.”

“But you _can’t_ mean that, Harry,” said Ron, his blue eyes filling up with hurt and betrayal. “It’s mad!”

“I’m not asking you to like it,” responded Harry with quiet severity. “I’m only asking you to hear us out and try to understand . . . and respect that this is what I . . . what Draco and I both want.”

Draco had been watching Ron with an expression of cool disdain. He snorted scornfully. “I seem to remember you saying that Harry was free to see anyone he wants to.” He raised one eyebrow in subtle triumph. “I believe that includes me.”

Ron turned red again, his fists clenched. “The hell it does,” he spat.

“And,” Draco went on, his voice full of sarcasm, “I hope the irony of this is not lost on you, Weasley. That this is _me_ protecting Harry this time – from _you_.”

“Draco . . .” said Harry in warning, tightening his grip on the other boy’s hand.

“ _He’s_ not the one that needs protecting from me, _Malfoy_ ,” said Ron taking a threatening step forward.

Draco immediately stepped forward and stood slightly in front of Harry. “Back off, Weasley,” he hissed, fixing Ron with a full Malfoy death glare.

Ron stopped and glared back, then pulled out his wand.

“Ron!” exclaimed Hermione, instantly taking hold of his arm. “Stop it! This is not going to help anything.”

But Ron turned on her, his voice cold. “You knew! You knew it was Malfoy, and you didn’t tell me!”

“I didn’t tell you,” she retorted, “because Harry needed to tell you himself. And because I knew you’d act like this. Throwing a tantrum is not going to change things. If Harry and Draco want to be together, you’re going to have to accept it.”

Ron jerked his arm away from Hermione’s grasp. He took one last look from Harry to Draco, and down at their clasped hands. It was unthinkable that the person he despised most in the world had somehow slipped past his guard and was seducing his best friend. There was such a strong solidarity to the way they were standing there together, and that was perhaps the most shocking thing of all to Ron’s eyes. “I can’t even stand to look at them,” he said icily. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

“That went well,” muttered Draco, still very aggravated, his low voice entirely too loud in the silence left by Ron’s angry exit.

Harry ran one hand through his hair. “No worse than I expected, I guess.”

Hermione turned back from watching the door swing shut behind Ron. “I should go after him,” she said. She gave Harry and Draco each a stern look. “That really could have been handled better . . . but never mind. I’ll see if I can talk some sense into him.”

“Ha,” said Draco, in an undertone. “Not bloody likely – ”

“Thanks, Hermione,” said Harry quickly, cutting Draco off.

“C’mon, Ginny,” said Hermione to the younger girl who was staring at Harry and Draco, her eyes wide as saucers and one hand over her open mouth. “I’ll explain it to you, too.”

“We’ll try to talk to him again later, after he’s had some time to settle down,” called Harry as Hermione walked away with a dazed Ginny in tow. He turned and gave Draco a quelling look. “And you,” he said, voicing his frustration, but quietly so only Draco would hear, “I thought you were going to try to stay calm and not react to him.”

Draco met Harry’s eyes with unflinching defiance. “If you think I am going to stand by and be calm while he shoves you onto the floor, you are very much mistaken.”

Harry had been annoyed with Draco for not controlling his temper, but looking at him now, with his flushed cheekbones and strands of flaxen hair falling over his forehead into those blazing gray eyes – eyes that were still sparking with indignation – Harry was struck by the startling realization that not only was Draco Malfoy simply stunning when he was angry, a fact he now wondered how he could have _possibly_ missed all these years, but also that he, Harry, was holding hands with this amazingly stunning person, and that Draco had only been angry on his behalf. Harry had to admit, but with a twinge of guilt for Ron’s sake, that it felt really good, exhilarating even, to have been on the protected side of the Malfoy death glare for once. He was suddenly filled with an almost overwhelming urge to kiss Draco senseless.

Grinning, he squeezed Draco’s hand, then leaned close to the Slytherin’s ear. “It _was_ a bit of an overreaction,” he said softly. “But you were wonderful.”

It took a couple of seconds for Harry’s comment to sink in, but then Draco relaxed. He tossed his head slightly to get the hair off his face and squeezed Harry’s hand back, giving Harry the merest smile to acknowledge the compliment. But with three more of Harry’s roommates to confront, he was still wary.

Harry sat down to finish his breakfast, and Draco, his manner somewhat guarded and cautious, sat down next to him in Ron’s vacated seat. Dean, Seamus, and Neville were sitting across from them, staring at Draco with nearly identical expressions of shock. Well, Seamus’s expression was more on the order of besotted awe. None of them said a word.

Looking at the three of them, Draco suddenly had to fight to maintain his cool, diffident demeanor and stifle a very strong urge to laugh. He looked sideways at Harry. Shocking these Gryffindors, now that Weasley was out of the way, was almost an irresistible temptation, but he wasn’t sure Harry would find it so amusing under the current circumstances. And he had promised to try to make this go smoothly.

“Okay, guys,” said Harry, spearing cold pancakes with his fork. “Have it out with me now, because I don’t want to hear about it later. This is what is, and while I expected Ron to act like a git, I’m hoping you three will give me a little more support.” He eyed them sternly. “Draco has changed and I would appreciate it if everyone would try to give him another chance.”

Draco looked down, sobered and rather touched to hear Harry taking this hard a line with his roommates for his sake.

After a long moment of silence, Neville spoke up in a nervous but determined voice. “It’s true,” he said. “ _I_ know he’s changed. He’s been helping me in Potions class when Snape wasn’t looking.”

Harry hadn’t known anything about this and turned to Draco in surprise.

Draco was regarding Neville with narrowed eyes. “Bloody hell, Longbottom,” he said finally, irritably, “I have to sit next to you. Do you have any idea how tiresome it was to have you blowing up your cauldron every day.” He leaned closer over the table. “And besides that,” he added, his tone still reproachful, but now with a hint of teasing added, “who said you could tell that anyway – that was _supposed_ to be our little secret. It’s bad enough that I’m seeing Harry, but if anyone else finds out I’m helping _you_ , my reputation will be _completely_ ruined.”

Neville looked worried for a second or two, but then realized that Draco was grinning slightly, that he was at least partly teasing, and managed to smile shyly back.

Dean spoke up next. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been acting differently this year too,” he said, nodding once at Draco. “So, if Harry says you’re okay now, that’s good enough for me.”

Draco looked at the tall black boy and nodded back. “Thanks,” he said quietly, realizing that he had unconsciously steeled himself inside to be snubbed by these boys, so their simple statements of support were meaning a lot to him. He turned to face Seamus.

Seamus was sitting with one elbow on the table, his chin in his hand, regarding Draco with a bemused, intent expression. When Draco looked at him, he tilted his head at an angle, his eyes half closed, a sly smile on his face. “And now I’m thinking I know what you’ve been on about all these years, Malfoy,” he said. “You and that nasty disposition of yours.”

Mildly insulted, but not certain he understood the intent of that statement, Draco glared a question at the towheaded boy sitting across from him.

“You just weren’t getting any,” pronounced Seamus with absolute authority. “Or,” he added, wiggling his eyebrows, his eyes sliding over to gaze suggestively at Harry, “not the right kind, anyway.”

Draco gave Seamus a dark stare for half a moment longer, then looked sideways at Harry too, and saw barely contained hilarity in those bright, green eyes. Harry was obviously struggling not to laugh. Their eyes met for a few suspended seconds and then Harry snickered. It was enough. Draco laughed. Suddenly all five boys were laughing.

“I may actually consider liking you, Finnigan,” said Draco, giving Seamus an appraising grin.

“Oh, Saints in Heaven,” whispered Seamus, stunned. He sagged sideways against Dean as if he had gone suddenly boneless.

Dean laughed at him and shoved him away, but he had gone so limp, he almost fell off the bench onto the floor.

Draco rolled his eyes to the ceiling and turned back to Harry with a smile. He was struck then by the approval and deep affection in Harry’s eyes. “I should be going,” he said quietly.

Harry nodded. “You’ll meet me later – in Hogsmeade?”

“Is one o’clock, at the Three Broomsticks, okay?”

“Yes.” Harry smiled, and put his hand over Draco’s, another question in his eyes.

In answer, Draco leaned forward and kissed him.

They heard a stifled squeak and then a distinct thud. When they pulled out of the kiss, Neville had his hands over his eyes, and Dean was grinning and shaking his head, looking down at the floor where Seamus was, because this time the silly twit really had fallen off the bench.

Draco stood up. “See you this afternoon,” he said to Harry, and with an amused smirk, walked out of the Great Hall.

Seamus scrambled back up onto his seat, and watched Draco until he had disappeared out the door. Then he turned to Harry, that awe-struck look back on his face. “God, Harry,” he said, practically breathless. “You _slept_ with Draco Malfoy. I want to know bloody _everything!_ ”

Harry turned a bit red, but he grinned. “That,” he said cryptically, “ _is_ everything.” He stood up. “This isn’t meant to be known by anyone else. So would you please not talk about it to anyone except the people who were here this morning,” he asked, as he looked expectantly at his three roommates. “Thanks,” he added sincerely, when they each nodded agreement. “I know that Draco and I will have to face a lot of opposition eventually, but it helps . . . it helps a lot . . . to know I can count on you guys.”

* * * * * 

When Draco got back to his room, he was gloating a little to himself. The bothersome telling-of-the-Gryffindors had gone better than expected. Except, that is, for Weasley – and no one had expected that to go well.

Draco had been infuriated that the red-headed git had shoved Harry onto the floor. But then, hadn’t Draco, in their early days, wanted to do that so many times himself? And had found out, repeatedly, that when Harry Potter was shoved down, he got back up and got in your face about whatever it was with a fierce determination that had always made Draco both furious and incredulous. It was because of that, that Draco didn’t believe for one moment that Harry would refuse to stand up to Voldemort, regardless of his statements last night to the contrary.

Draco’s mouth twisted into a wry, sad smile, a smile for the part he was going to be playing in that event, tainted by regret for the same reason. Harry might find fighting the Dark Lord a bitter, unbearable thing to do, but he would do it. Just as Draco would do the impossible, bitter thing he had to do.

But he resolutely chased those thoughts from his mind. There was nothing to be gained by being foolish about things he couldn’t change. He relit the fire absent-mindedly, then walked to his desk and opened the drawer where he had hidden the ring and the library book on gem transfiguration. The ring felt cool, a slight weight in his palm, as he carried it to the table in front of the fireplace. Pushing the chessboard carefully to one side, Draco laid the ring on the table and sat down in the chair, one foot tucked underneath him, to study the transfiguration spell. He opened the book and began to read.

* * * * * 

Walking alone to Hogsmeade gave Harry time to think. Maybe it was something about the serious, intent expression on his face, or the way he walked with his head slightly down, hands jammed into his pockets, that kept other students from inviting themselves into his company, and Harry was glad that no one did. He nodded at a few acquaintances and went on, lost in the jumble of emotions and thoughts and worries that clamored for attention in his mind. A lot of things had happened last night and this morning, things he had not had time to think through or sort out until now.

There was, of course, Ron’s reaction this morning to finding out who Harry was involved with. Ron had acted just as Harry had expected, but in truth, he had hoped for better, and felt let down. Ron was his best friend after all. It felt a lot like the time Ron hadn’t believed that he didn’t sneak his name into the Goblet of Fire at the last Triwizard Tournament. But maybe things would go better this afternoon after Ron had had time to calm down and Hermione had talked to him.

Harry was determined not to let Ron come between him and Draco, or Draco come between him and Ron. He wasn’t holding onto any false hopes that they might like each other, but he was simply not going to put up with them openly fighting with each other. What he was hoping for was that Draco would agree to come with him to talk to Ron this afternoon, that Ron would talk to Draco, and see that he had changed.

Then there was his relationship with Draco himself. So much had happened last night. Harry had talked about things he hadn’t told anyone else, had had one revelation while standing in a shower stall, another about Cho, and had almost made love to a boy who, a week ago, he’d thought he hated. _Almost made love_ , he thought, frustrated by not understanding what had happened. _I would have, if he hadn’t stopped it. Why?_ What had caused Draco’s startling change of mind? That event most certainly had to be related to their talk about Cho, but Harry was at a loss to know how.

And Cho. What Draco had told him about Cho had changed everything he had previously believed about her. He had thought he had it all worked out, that what he felt now for Draco was so much more powerful than what he had experienced with Cho because she hadn’t really cared about him, had not loved him, and had held back from being deeply involved. But if Draco was right about what had happened, that wasn’t true.

Yet the fact that he did feel different with Draco was undeniable. Even from that first brief kiss, he’d felt it. Felt it strong enough to reverse everything he had believed about Draco for six years. Strong enough to fall in love. To want to make love. With a boy. Harry mulled this over for a while. Did it mean he _was_ gay, after all? Was that the explanation? Was it only different because he felt more desire for boys than girls. Or did the difference lie in something specific about Draco?

It didn’t take much thought for Harry to conclude that he’d never felt attracted to any other boy, and that what he felt for Draco encompassed a great deal more than desire, or a need for sex. From that night he had stood in Draco’s room, had first held him and kissed him, and had melted into those warm gray eyes, Harry had felt a sense of completion that by comparison he had never felt with Cho. There was an irrefutable bond between himself and Draco, something deep that was growing with a speed that might have been frightening except for the feeling of rightness lying sure and certain at the center of it. There really was no question that he wanted to be with Draco because of Draco himself.

Harry was smiling now as he walked, recalling his feelings of the night before while he had stood in the shower stall with Draco. Draco’s woeful silliness over the wet shirt and his achingly genuine fear for Harry’s safety had been so endearing, had touched his heart so completely, that he had fallen over the edge – _plummeted was more like it_ , he thought, laughing to himself – and was now, without a doubt, very much in love with the mercurial, enigmatic creature that was Draco Malfoy.

Suddenly, the memory of holding and kissing Draco as the other boy lay beneath him last night washed over Harry in a wave of desire so intense that he had to stop walking and stand still for a moment, rooted to the spot as vivid sensation rushed over him. Harry had wanted to make love, wanted Draco to be his so dearly. And it had been very clear that Draco had wanted that too. Which brought Harry’s thoughts full circle. Why had Draco changed his mind?

With a small shake of his head, Harry pulled himself back to reality, and started walking again. _Maybe he’s worried that I have experience and he doesn’t_ , he thought. But he dismissed that idea – Draco had known his story about being a virgin was a lie from the beginning – and had been candidly willing, excited and impatient even, to sleep with Harry right up until they’d talked about Harry’s break-up. No, it definitely had to have something to do with what he’d said about Cho.

The last thing he remembered being said, before he realized Draco had changed his mind, was Draco asking about it meaning forever. But no, that had happened after Draco came back to bed. _Damn_. What had Harry said that had made Draco get up in the first place?

Harry thought hard, trying to remember, but he’d been much too caught up in his own emotions about Cho to have any clear memory of exactly what had been said. Very vaguely, he remembered Draco asking him a question, something about regrets maybe, and answering that he wished he hadn’t slept with her, then another question about if that’s what had hurt him so much. That had to be it, but try as hard as he could, Harry couldn’t reason out why in the world that would have caused Draco to change his mind.

He sighed again and kicked at a stone in the road. Then he shrugged and stopped worrying about it. It didn’t matter, really. At most it meant waiting a couple of days, and Harry didn’t mind that. The chess game couldn’t last much longer and they would have all of the Christmas holidays to spend together. Harry grinned at the thought. No, waiting a day or so didn’t matter at all.

Especially not, he realized suddenly, when you intended to spend a lifetime with someone.

* * * * * 

Draco began reading the book from the beginning. He skimmed through several paragraphs of the history of gem transfiguration and biographical information about the author, concentrating instead on the sections that dealt with the magic involved. At the very end of the first chapter he read, then reread, this warning:

  


> _The complexity of a gem transfiguration spell lies in the necessity of_   
> _transfiguring not only the elements that make up the fabric of the stones_   
> _themselves, but in altering their energy forms as well. It is not simply a_   
> _matter of changing the color of a given stone; a complete change of the_   
> _inert mineral properties and active vibratory essence must be accomplished._   
> _This transfiguration must be done correctly on the first attempt. Failure_   
> _will cause the gemstones to disintegrate, their inner structures disrupted_   
> _beyond repair._

  


Draco swore softly. He didn’t have time to have the ring reset – he would have to be very careful. He flipped back to the table of contents. The book only covered about ten different transfigurations, each with its own chapter. He scanned down the list, finding _Emerald to Ruby_ about half-way down the page. He turned to that section and read on:

  


> _Emerald and ruby are both gems of the heart, so are similar in_   
> _vibration, yet there are differences in their influence. Because of its clear_   
> _bright hue, the emerald is the stone most perfectly associated with the_   
> _highest green vibration of healing, acting to balance and purify the wearer._   
> _The ruby stimulates the emotions, strengthening the will and giving_   
> _courage, also acting to balance and purify the wearer._

  


He paused for a moment, thinking. The description of the emerald made it seem more appropriate for Harry than he had originally thought. He considered, briefly, leaving the ring as it was. But the influence of the ruby, given the purpose he intended for the ring, fit even better. He skipped down to the next paragraph, making a decision to follow his original plan to transfigure the gems, and read again:

  


> _The transfiguration from emerald to ruby is considered to be of only_   
> _moderate difficulty because even though the two stones are of different_   
> _structural compositions, their vibrations and influences have_   
> _similarities._

  


At least he hadn’t chosen one of the most difficult spells. It involved a series of three incantations, each working at a different aspect of the gem’s properties. He read the spell through several times, then closed his eyes, reciting softly from memory. Checking himself, he read the spell again, and was gratified to find he had remembered it flawlessly. Well, there was no point in delaying any longer, if the ring was to soak in the potion for the required 24-48 hours, he had to do this now.

Draco retrieved the ring from the table and took out his wand. He closed his eyes again for a moment, steadied his breathing. Then in a clear, confident voice he spoke the words of the spell, giving a circular, twirling flourish with his wand over the ring at the end of each part. After the last pass of his wand, twin sparks of blue-violet light ignited in the emeralds and they glowed with an eerie incandescence for a few seconds before turning a deep red.

Draco grinned, and closed his fist around the ring, squeezing it tightly in silent triumph and relief. He set his wand back on the table and uncurled from the chair. Still smiling to himself with satisfaction at his success, he went to his wardrobe, pulled the jar of potion from the top drawer and dropped the ring into the light blue liquid. There was a faint fizzing sound as the metal touched the potion and sank to the bottom of the jar. Draco held it up and examined the ring through the glass, then, feeling assured that it was okay, he replaced the lid tightly and returned the jar to his drawer.

He checked his watch and found that he still had an hour before he had to meet Harry, plenty of time to walk into Hogsmeade and find a nice gift box for the ring for when he gave it to Harry.

_Harry . . ._

Draco turned and took the couple of steps that brought him to the foot of his bed. The bedclothes were still disarrayed, the way they had left them in their hurry to get ready this morning. He should straighten them, but didn’t want to, their abandoned twisting, wrinkled chaos holding an eloquent evidence and testimony of Harry’s presence that he would not willfully erase. Memory engulfed him for a moment and he gripped the bedpost to steady himself against the surge of emotion that took him. He remembered the touch of Harry’s hands, the night before last, so calming and steady, a touch he felt reverberate through his skin, echoing deep within him, the healing warmth of those hands coaxing comfort all the way into the heart of him.

And last night . . . He could recall with startling clarity, Harry’s body pressing him down as if into the most perfect place he could be held, a place of complete safety, where life and time might be spun out endlessly, lost in the long weightless moment of eternity contained in a kiss. The absence of that touch, that missing presence, was becoming a sharp emptiness that consumed him with need and want. So new, these feelings, so achingly familiar too, as if they had been embedded in him for always, but coming to the surface now with a raw freshness that staggered the mind and sent sense reeling. He was in love and knew it with absolute certainty.

_And what I love_ . . .

He turned to glance at the drawer that held his only hope in the grim future he foresaw. What he loved, he would keep safe. At any cost.

* * * * * 

Harry had found presents for everyone on his list but Draco, and was beginning to worry that nothing seemed quite right. He’d looked at books while shopping for Hermione, and Quidditch collectibles while shopping for Ron, but Draco already seemed to have so many books and Harry hadn’t seen any evidence that the other boy was interested in any particular Quidditch team. He had almost bought an elegant quill and parchment set, but finally decided it was too impersonal. He wanted something that was unique, something that would express his feelings, that would be meaningful to just the two of them.

It was close to half-past twelve, which meant he was to meet Draco in half an hour. Harry stopped in the middle of the walk, shifted his shopping bags from one hand to the other and looked around, beginning to feel a little desperate. Where else could he go? His attention was drawn then to a small shop across the lane with a sign above the door that read, The Polished Stone – Magical Jewelry and Gems, that he had never noticed before.

Jewelry? Harry hadn’t considered that. But yes, perhaps that was just what he wanted – something Draco could wear that would mean they were together. He blushed a little at the thought of that; he’d never given anyone jewelry before, not even Cho, and it surprised him now, to realize he had never wanted to. But Draco . . . Harry felt excited at the idea, so with renewed enthusiasm and a deep breath, he set out across the street to the shop.

A small bell chimed pleasantly as he opened the door. Inside, there were many brightly lit glass cases that held shelves of scrying stones, crystal balls of various sizes, and many-colored faceted gemstone points made into pendants and other pieces of jewelry. Harry looked hurriedly over all of these, then noticed a small display of rings. One ring in particular, a gold band with three deep blue stones set in a row, caught his attention. It was lovely, but after studying it for a few moments, he decided it wasn’t what he was looking for.

Next to the rings, however, in another small case set up on the counter, their prismatic luster vivid against the black velvet lining of the case, was a grouping of delicate quartz crystal pendants with twisted silver wire filigree settings on fine silver chains. The crystals had been magically shaped into ancient runic symbols, some of them had colored gemstones set into the silver bands. They were simple, yet elegantly made, clear crystal and smoothly curling silver, with a spark of color here and there; beautiful with a cool brilliance and inner fire that reminded him of Draco. All of them seemed perfectly suited, so Harry had no idea how to choose between the different symbols.

Then his eyes fell on one, and he felt a rush of recognition. It was almost like . . . not quite the same . . . but if they could do that . . . A thrill ran through Harry as he remembered Draco gently tracing his scar. Only Draco had ever touched it in affection like that. He looked up expectantly as the shopkeeper came over.

“Decided on something, young man?”

“Yes,” said Harry, hesitantly. “That is, I like these, but I was wondering if you could make one just for me? A certain shape.” He pushed the hair up off his forehead, blushing slightly. “Can you make it look like this – with one of the other small stones on it?” Harry smiled bashfully. “And I know it’s short notice, but can it be delivered by Monday? I can pay extra for the rush. It’s meant to be a Christmas present.”

The man broke into a wide grin, beaming at him. “For Harry Potter, we can do anything!” he said jovially. “Now just step over here for a moment – and let me take a closer look at that forehead of yours . . .”

Harry stood still while the jeweler made an exact sketch of his scar. He was quite grateful that no one else came into the shop, but it didn’t take long. Then Harry picked out the gemstone he wanted for it, a pale blue-gray stone that seemed to glow with an inner light that reminded him of Draco’s eyes. After an enthusiastic handshake, he was on his way again, a little embarrassed but also greatly pleased with his purchase. The jeweler had assured him that the pendant would be ready and delivered first thing Monday morning.

* * * * * 

Harry walked as quickly as he could from the gem shop to the Three Broomsticks, knowing he was running a little late. He found Draco outside the entrance to the inn holding one very small shopping bag. “Been here long?” asked Harry, sorry to have kept Draco waiting.

“Not long,” replied Draco, noting all the packages Harry was carrying with curious interest, one eyebrow raised. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”

Harry followed Draco into the pub, neither of them noticing the tall black boy who was watching them from across the street. They edged their way through the bustling lunchtime crowd and found a small table near the back of the room. As usual, there was a roaring fire laid in the great hearth and Madam Rosmerta had festively decorated the area next to the fireplace with a beautiful lighted Christmas tree and holly branches draped over the mantle.

Harry and Draco ordered sandwiches and hot butterbeer, then sat back to relax. Draco eyed Harry’s bags again and grinned deviously. “Rook to D1, Harry. Tell me what you have in your packages. Anything for me in one of those?”

“Nope,” answered Harry with a teasing grin back. “Nothing for you.”

“Nothing?” Draco looked deeply disappointed.

“Not in _these_ packages,” said Harry. “I’m having yours delivered.”

“Ooh, then you did get me something?”

“Of course, I did,” said Harry with a laugh.

“Hmm,” mused Draco. “What could it be that has to be delivered? Give me hint, Harry,” he begged.

“It’s something nice.” Harry laughed again. “Not underwear, and that’s all I’m saying.” Then he sobered a little. “I hope you’ll like it.” He looked down at Draco’s small bag leaning next to him on the bench. “Um, Rook to E4,” he said, after thinking for a moment to be sure he remembered where his chess pieces were. “What have you been buying?”

“I got _you_ something this morning,” said Draco, reaching into the bag to pull out a small package. “This isn’t your present. Just something to put it in.” He handed Harry a small tissue wrapped item.

Harry unwrapped it and felt the color rise up in his face. It was a lovely little plush box, black with a decorative silver clasp, and very obviously meant to hold a ring. “Oh,” said Harry, touched and rendered rather tongue-tied by the implications of that. “It’s . . . great.”

Harry looked up at Draco, who was smiling at him, but before he could think of anything else to say, their food arrived.

Draco quickly gathered up the box and tissue and tucked them into his pocket, leaving the bag on the table. He picked up his tankard of foaming butterbeer and held it up. “A toast,” he said, an amused glint in his eyes. “To Christmas presents that aren’t underwear.”

Laughing, Harry raised his tankard and clinked it against Draco’s. “To Christmas presents,” he said, and they both drank. When Harry set his tankard down, he happened to look toward the front of the pub and saw a familiar tall, dark figure loitering in the doorway, looking directly at them. “Draco,” said Harry quietly, after a moment, when the boy continued to linger, “I think we’re being watched. Isn’t that one of your housemates, just inside the door there?”

“Yes.” Draco shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I see him.”

“Is that okay?” persisted Harry. “I mean, maybe we shouldn’t be here like this. Now that my friends know, I wasn’t worried about being seen here with you, but I forgot about the other Slytherins. I guess they’re not going to like seeing us together.”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse what they think,” said Draco flatly. “What I do, or who I see, is none of their business.” He turned to Harry, his expression serious. “That doesn’t mean I intend to parade up and down the halls holding hands with you either. What happens between us is private and I don’t want it talked about all over the school. I would prefer that as few people as possible know.”

“I’ve told everyone I wanted to know,” said Harry earnestly “so as far as I’m concerned, no one else needs to know at all. But . . .” he paused, hesitating a second before voicing his other concern. “Draco, I meant what I said yesterday, about not being able to fight with you now. I don’t even think I can pretend to fight with you, to keep up a pretense that we’re still enemies. And I’m not going to be able to just ignore you and act indifferent.” Harry sighed. “I’ve been through this before with Cho, sneaking around, not letting anyone see us together, and it gets old fast – I don’t want to do it again. We have to be seen to be at least friends, so we can talk in public or do things together, even if we keep what our real relationship is, a secret.”

“What?” protested Draco, a small teasing smile on his lips. “I can’t kick you in the shin now and then outside the Great Hall?”

“No!” said Harry with a laugh. “No kicking _or_ kissing in public.”

“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me.”

“You’re the one who’s insisting on keeping things private – therefore no kissing.” Harry looked up and saw that their watcher was gone. He relaxed. “But I must insist on no kicking. My shin is _still_ sore.”

Draco chuckled and saluted Harry with his tankard of butterbeer. “It was a moment of sheer brilliance – if I do say so myself.” He took a drink, then said, “But even us being friends will cause talk.”

“Well,” said Harry philosophically, “as much as I hate it, that’s nothing new. Neither of us can hardly move an inch without causing people to talk.”

“That’s true.” Draco nodded. “Okay, friends it is, then. And damn the consequences.”

Harry laughed. “Agreed,” he said, pleased that Draco had given in. And with that settled, they both got down to the business of tackling the huge sandwiches set in front of them.

* * * * * 

When Harry and Draco left the Three Broomsticks, they set off at an easy pace for Hogwarts. The walk back through the forest was quiet, almost no one else was on the road. They passed a couple of Hufflepuff sixth years walking into town who gave them a curious stare, but then it seemed they had the road and the forest to themselves.

Large evergreen trees towered above them on either side creating a hushed, insulated feeling; and here and there a few trees with brightly colored leaves, still tenaciously hanging on despite the late season, cheered the forest edge, contrasting sharply with the dark elegance of the spruce and fir. Overhead, the sky was clouded, a soft gray so pale as to almost be white. The air was cool and crisp but felt good to Harry after the crowded heat inside the Three Broomsticks.

Harry looked behind them, and finding the road deserted, shifted his packages to one arm, then reached over and snagged Draco’s hand. “This isn’t a hall at school,” said Harry when Draco looked over at him, one eyebrow lifted in surprise.

Draco grinned, but any retort was cut off by the sudden sound of girls giggling. The voices came from just around the bend in the road ahead.

Harry froze, pulling Draco to a halt as well. “Wait,” he whispered. “I know those giggles.”

Draco looked disgusted. “So do I,” he growled. “It’s those two girls.”

Harry looked around, panic rising, but the forest surrounded them on both sides. There was only one thing to do. “Quick,” he said, “in here!” Still holding Draco firmly by the hand, Harry plunged into the woods, dragging Draco after him. The underbrush was thick and they had to fight their way through it. Finally, Harry emerged into a circular clearing. He looked behind them and stopped, satisfied that they couldn’t be seen from the road.

Draco yanked his hand out of Harry’s grasp and fixed Harry with a questioning glare. “And what was the meaning of that?” he demanded, brushing dead leaves and twigs from his cloak. “I know I said you should stay away from those girls, but that doesn’t mean you have to go running off into the woods, dragging me through the bushes and weeds with you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Harry in a breathless rush, setting down the packages he was carrying. “It’s just that . . . I have something to ask you, and I didn’t want to run into them before I did.”

“Ask me what? And what does it have to with them?” Draco asked irritably, picking burrs out of his shirt sleeves.

Harry bit his lower lip for a second. Draco looked rather cross and this was probably very bad timing, but he’d let it slip his mind and it really shouldn’t wait. “I was wondering . . .” he said hesitantly, “if you would go to the Yule Ball with me.”

Draco just stared at Harry for a moment. “Harry, are you insane?” he asked finally, incredulous. “We can’t go with each other as dates. I thought we agreed to keep our real relationship private.”

Harry grinned shyly at him. “We can go if it looks like we have other dates.”

“But we don’t have other dates.”

“Yes, we do.”

Draco frowned. “Harry, what did you do?”

“I forgot to tell you,” said Harry very quietly. “I said we’d go with them.”

“WHAT!?”

“Shhh!” said Harry, anxious that they not be heard. “I can explain.”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded Harry with narrowed eyes. “So you talked to those girls after all. Even after I warned you not to.”

“They had a very interesting plan.”

“I don’t care what they planned! I am not going to encourage some girl I don’t have the slightest interest in by taking her to a dance!” He turned his face away. “Shit,” he swore under his breath, remembering what he had promised last night – about not denying Harry anything else. He turned back to face Harry after a second. “They’ll think we like them,” he tried to explain in a quieter, but still urgent tone. “We’ll never get rid of them – they’ll be expecting – ”

“No, they won’t,” interrupted Harry. “That’s just it. They’re like us. They want to go to the Ball with each other and want us to be decoy dates.”

Draco’s eyebrows flew up, sudden comprehension rolling over him. “Like _us_ ,” he repeated, very annoyed. “Just how in the _hell_ do they know about _us?_ ”

Harry made a wry face. “They were in the hall that morning, remember? They hung around behind us and listened. They heard you say you liked boys and that you had kissed me – and er . . . that I had liked it.”

Draco’s breath hissed out in white vapor. “God, I hate Slytherin girls. They are the lowest, sneakiest things on the face of the earth.”

“Draco, think about it,” persisted Harry. “This is the perfect way for us to be seen together, to show everybody that we’ve stopped fighting, that we’re friends. We can get it over with in front of the whole school at once instead of having rumors trickling around for weeks.”

Still frowning, Draco said, “When we agreed we could be seen together, I was thinking of something a lot more casual.” He regarded Harry soberly. “Don’t you see the difference between us being friendly in the halls and showing up at a dance together? Even if we go with those girls, it will still look funny for us to go together. You _do_ realize you’ll be going with three Slytherins. Everyone will be horribly shocked.”

Harry shrugged. “Everyone will just have to get over it. Besides, I rather thought you enjoyed shocking people.”

Draco couldn’t deny that. “True,” he said, thinking it over. Finally, he looked up at Harry with a devilish light in his eyes. “I admit,” he said, “it _would_ be funny.” Then he grinned. “Pansy will be furious.”

“Then you’ll go with me?”

“Maybe,” said Draco, giving Harry a sly look. “Will you dance with me?”

Harry laughed. “Now who’s being insane? Don’t you think that would be just a little too shocking, not to mention blatantly obvious. What happened to all that keeping-this-private stuff?”

“I haven’t given that up. You’ll just have to find a way for us not to be seen,” said Draco suggestively. “I’ll go – _if_ you promise to dance with me. _And_ if you let me pick what you wear. That green thing you wore last year was dreadful – I refuse to be seen anywhere near that.”

“I think I can agree to those terms,” said Harry, smiling and patting his pocket. He kept his Invisibility Cloak shrunk down and with him at all times now since he had started seeing Draco. “Those green dress robes are too short for me now anyway.” Then the fact that the dance was only two days away suddenly occurred to Harry. “But wait, Draco,” he said urgently. “I won’t have time to shop for new dress robes before Monday night – unless we go back to Hogsmeade right now.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Draco. “You can wear something of mine. You and I are pretty much the same size – it won’t be hard to find you something.” He turned his face up to the sky as something soft and cold brushed his cheek. “It’s starting to snow,” he said. He turned around noticing their surroundings for the first time. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You know what this _is?_ ”

“Er,” said Harry, looking up at the sky too, then at Draco, puzzled by the sudden changes of subject, “a clearing in the woods?”

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes. “It’s a Portkey hub! And an old one, from the look of it. I never knew there was one here, on the way to Hogsmeade.” Draco came to stand very close to Harry. “You know what that means don’t you?”

“No,” said Harry, tilting his head back again to watch the tiny flakes of snow that drizzled down here and there from the pale, round patch of sky overhead. “I have no idea.”

“It _means_ ,” said Draco with exaggerated patience, “that there’s a _path!_ It _means_ that we didn’t have to come crashing through all the underbrush to get here and we won’t have to repeat that tiresome, dirty ordeal on the way out!”

Harry laughed. “Ah,” he said. “I’ll try to remember that. Always search for the path to a Portkey hub that no one knows is there when you’re running away into the forest from girls you don’t want to see you.”

Ignoring that, except for giving Harry an exasperated look, Draco paced around, intently scanning the edges of the circle for a sign of a break in the virtual wall of bushes and branches that surrounded them. The trees around the perimeter stood close together with dense evergreen growth in between, but after a few moments, he spotted a clear space between two trees. “Here,” he called. “This might be it.”

Sure enough, when Harry joined Draco at the spot, he could see a narrow path running off toward the main road. “Oh, well done!” said Harry, both impressed and amused. “Shall I go first and make sure there aren’t any wild, unruly weeds in your way?”

Draco raised one eyebrow and tried to look insulted, but he snickered instead because Harry was grinning at him, and it really was quite funny. No one in his life had ever had the audacity to tease him, and most definitely, no one had ever teased him affectionately the way Harry had been doing since last night. He was finding it quite novel and enjoyable. “You,” he said in an equally teasing tone, “are flirting with danger, you know.”

Harry chuckled and stepped closer to Draco, sliding his arms in under Draco’s cloak, pulling the blond against him. “I know,” he said softly. “I like it.”

Draco’s arms went around his neck as Harry bent his head to kiss Draco’s mouth. Draco’s face felt cool, but his mouth was warm, and under his cloak where Harry’s hands lay pressed against his back, Draco was very warm. Harry snuggled deeper into that comfortable delicious warmth. He felt Draco shiver in his arms in response, and tightened his embrace, then gently ended the kiss. “Still angry with me?” he asked, looking into Draco’s eyes, finding no sign of it in the velvety gray gaze.

“Just a little,” said Draco, with a hint of a frown that looked more like a smile he was trying to hide.

Harry kissed him again, longer this time, stirring the beginnings of desire between them, a rush of heat melting them together. “How about now?” he whispered, finally.

Draco leaned his forehead against Harry’s, his eyes still closed. “Hardly at all,” he whispered back, his voice breathless. After a moment he pulled away. “Let’s go back,” he said quietly. “I’d much rather be doing this in my room.”

Harry reluctantly let Draco go, feeling the separation like a physical ache as the cold air reclaimed him from Draco’s encompassing warmth, but he smiled at the thought of continuing, curled up by the fire in Draco’s room, and went to gather up his packages. Going ahead, he ducked through the narrow opening between the trees and started off down the path Draco had found.

* * * * * 

Draco followed him through the opening, but then stopped, and turned to look back, studying the clearing with a critical eye. There was something about the layout of this place that was nagging at him . . . something he knew he should be seeing . . .

Then all at once, it struck him, perception coming fully in one swift realization, and the final pieces of his plan fell perfectly into place. _Harry will have to be able to find it again_ , he thought, _and I’ll need Dumbledore’s help with one part_ . . . but even as that thought occurred to him, he knew precisely what story he could tell the old wizard to get what he wanted. This place was exactly what he had needed.

_Here_ . . . 

He turned away suddenly, shaking off the feeling of impending finality – the disconcerting shock of seeing the place where everything would end and knowing it for what it was – recognizing that which no man should see or have foreknowledge of. Quickly, he followed the path out, hurrying to catch up to Harry.

* * * * * 

Where the path met the road, it was overgrown and difficult to see. Draco made Harry wait while he searched around the entrance, looking for something. Finally, he pulled several heavy, twining loops of ivy vines away from an old, battered post. “Ha,” he said. “I knew it.” The post had two weathered, barely readable arrows, one for Hogwarts, the other for Hogsmeade. “It _was_ a Portkey hub once.”

“It obviously hasn’t been used for years,” observed Harry. “And was forgotten.”

“My guess is that it was closed during the war with Voldemort, and with the need for increased security for the school afterward, it was never reopened.” Draco studied the old signpost for a few moments. “Do you think you could find your way back here again if you had to?” he asked, being very careful to sound casual.

Harry looked around. “If I looked out for that old post, probably. Why?”

“I thought it looked like a good place to meet – a secret place, that only we know,” said Draco as they started off down the road to Hogwarts.

“In that case, I’m sure I could find it,” said Harry, smiling.

They walked a little further and Draco sighed. “Okay,” he said, his tone resigned, “if we’re going to this dance, I guess you’d better tell me who I’m going with – besides you, that is.”

“I’m going with Natalia,” explained Harry. “She’s the blonde one, and you’ll be with the dark-haired one. I think her name is Violet.”

Draco stopped in his tracks. “Oh, no,” he said, turning on Harry, indignation written all over his face. “I’ve changed my mind. I am not going _anywhere_ – for _any_ reason – with another girl with a stupid flower name. It’s getting ridiculous. Violet, Pansy, even my own mother is named after a flower!”

“Oh,” said Harry, a little startled, “so was _my_ mother. And my aunt.” He paused for a second. “Come to think of it, Lavender Brown, one of the Gryffindor girls in my year is too.”

“See,” said Draco, obviously feeling his claim had just been indisputably proven. “It’s been dreadfully overdone.”

Harry shrugged, and continued walking for a while next to Draco, thinking. “Well,” he said noncommittally after a time, “I guess you’re right.” He looked sidelong at Draco. “You know, now that I think of it,” he continued, hiding a grin, “maybe it’s just as well you don’t go. I’m not that great a dancer. I’m sure you would have been disappointed. Probably the girls won’t mind too much, if they both go with me. The real shame is, though, I guess I’ll have to wear those old green robes again. Even though they barely cover my ankles.”

Draco screwed up his face at the image that conveyed. He walked on, struggling with the alternatives. Snowflakes sifted down lazily from the pale sky, dusting his hair and shoulders and vanishing against his warmth while he wrestled with his decision, but picturing Harry going to the Yule Ball without him, escorting _two_ girls and dressed in those dreadful robes was more than he could stand. Finally, he had to acknowledge that he’d been outmaneuvered, and rather skillfully at that. “I’m impressed, Harry,” he said at last with reluctant admiration. “That was pure Slytherin.”

“So, you’ll go?” asked Harry with a victorious grin.

Draco sulked for a moment longer, then relented. “I’ll go,” he said. “But only because I can’t let you show up in those ghastly robes, now can I? And with _girls_. It’s just too horrible to contemplate.”

“Thank God!” said Harry laughing, enormously relieved. “I don’t think I could have stood it.” He caught hold of Draco’s hand again. “And it would have been entirely your fault, you know, if I’d had to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower afterwards.”

Draco had to laugh at that. “I refuse to be responsible,” he said with a toss of his head and a teasing grin, “for your gory, splattered remains. _I_ told you not to talk to them. This whole scheme of going with them so you could ask me out was your own idea.”

Harry grinned back. “It was the girls’ idea, but I _did_ recognize that it was a brilliant plan,” he said proudly. “There’s no other way we could have gone together.” They walked on a bit further, then a little apologetically, Harry added, “There’s something else I have to ask you, too.”

“It had better not involve girls,” warned Draco, quite seriously.

“No, much worse than that I’m afraid. It’s Ron. I need to talk to him when we get back, and I was really hoping we could go talk to him together.”

“You want me to come with you, after what happened this morning?”

“Yes,” said Harry firmly. He was determined that Ron and Draco would talk, and was not going to accept no from either of them on that issue. “And this time, will you please try to stay calm,” he asked, continuing with a bit of a tease in his voice, but quite resolute in his intent.

Draco made a face. “It’s not very likely he’s going to be calm with me.”

“I know, but he’ll settle down eventually,” asserted Harry. “In the meantime, all I’m asking is that you show him enough of your devastatingly charming side to convince him that I have not gone mental by wanting to be with you.”

“Well,” said Draco, mulling that over, “if you put it that way. But you do understand that being charming for a Weasley takes phenomenal skill and effort? I expect to be greatly made over and petted later for the trouble.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “I can do that,” he said.

Draco shook his head. “Dumb girls and Weasleys,” he muttered, but with a mollified expression and the beginnings of a slight smile. “I used to have such a quiet life.”

Harry stopped walking and looped his arm around Draco’s waist. “And now you have me,” he said softly, pulling Draco close. “Want to change back?”

“No.” Draco smiled at the snowflakes that dotted and melted in Harry’s hair, leaving tiny glistening droplets of water. “Much too late for that,” he whispered against Harry’s mouth as he leaned in to accept Harry’s kiss. “But are you sure it can’t wait until after Christmas?” he asked, when they pulled apart. “We have only three more days until I have to go home. I don’t want to share you.”

“I don’t want to wait,” insisted Harry, then he stared at Draco in alarm. “But Draco, God . . . I thought you were staying here for Christmas. I didn’t think you were going to go home again. Dumbledore said you had asked if you could stay here at Hogwarts . . . to be safe. And Snape said . . .” 

Harry pulled Draco closer, a wave of deep concern sweeping over him as he remembered exactly what Snape had said. _“If you really do care about him, then keep him away from his father. ”_ “I don’t think you should go,” he said desperately. “Please don’t. I . . . I wanted to spend Christmas here with you. We would almost have the whole castle to ourselves.”

“I have to go home Harry,” said Draco sadly, but firmly. “My father is expecting me most particularly. There is no excuse I could come up with that he would accept.”

Harry studied Draco’s face with dismay, then withdrew slowly from Draco’s embrace and began walking again. After a moment’s delay, Draco caught up and fell into step beside him. They walked for a while without talking, Harry reeling from disappointment and worry, uncertain what to say. Surely there was some way to keep Draco here. Maybe Snape would talk to him. Harry balked slightly at the thought of having to ask the surly professor for help, but this was far too important to let his personal dislike of the man get in the way. Or maybe Dumbledore could do something.

“I really have no choice about this, Harry,” said Draco quietly. “If I did, don’t you know I’d stay here with you?”

“I know,” said Harry. “But what if we get Dumbledore – ”

“If anyone gets involved in trying to keep me here,” said Draco, cutting Harry off, “it will just make things worse. My only chance right now is to do exactly what my father expects, so he doesn’t get suspicious. And since this _is_ probably going to be the last time I go home, there are some things I need to do. I want to collect a few personal belongings from my room . . . and say goodbye to my mother.”

Harry nodded grudgingly. It was going to be very hard to argue against that. He looked up and was surprised to find that they had reached the edge of the Hogwarts grounds. He stopped and set his packages down, his mind shifting gears reluctantly. Draco watched impatiently while Harry dug down into the pocket of his jeans. “If you’re coming up with me to talk to Ron,” said Harry, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak, “you’re going to have to wear this. And you need to put it on now, before we go in.”

“Well hurry up with it, then,” said Draco, as Harry took out his wand and spelled the cloak to his normal size. “If I have to talk to Weasley, I want to get it over with, so we can have the rest of the night to ourselves.”

* * * * * 

Harry slipped into the Gryffindor common room with his hands full of shopping bags and Draco under the Invisibility Cloak close behind him. Hermione jumped up quickly from the table where she was sitting studying for their last class of History of Magical Mysteries.

“Harry,” she called urgently, almost tripping over a group of first-years sitting on the floor playing Exploding Snap, in her rush to get to him. “Ron is up in your room,” she whispered when she reached him. “I talked to him, but he’s acting completely miserable. He would hardly say two words to me.”

“We’re going up to talk to him right now,” said Harry, looking down into Hermione’s troubled brown eyes. “Don’t worry,” he added gently. “I’ll make it up with him somehow.”

“We?” she asked, frowning. “What do you mean . . . ?”

“He means that I’m here too,” said a low voice out of the air right behind Harry.

Hermione stifled a small startled gasp, then turned back to Harry, her face suddenly flushed and disapproving. “That is not a good idea!” she whispered angrily. “He shouldn’t even be in here! Ron will be furious if you take him upstairs. You’ll just end up making him more upset and that won’t help anything.” Her expression softened just a little and she went on. “I know you want him to see that you and Draco are together, but I think you need to talk to him alone first.”

Harry acknowledged that she was probably right. Still . . . he really wanted Draco to be there. He could feel Draco leaning against him, one hand on his back, waiting to see what he would decide.

“Ron’s mad at _you_ , Harry,” continued Hermione before Harry could say anything. “But if you take Draco up there, he’ll blame Draco and take it out on him instead. That’s hardly fair.”

“I must say, I agree,” said Draco quietly, after a moment of silence.

Harry sighed, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the empty space behind him where he knew Draco was. “I want you to come up,” he said. “I think he needs to talk to both of us, but I guess Hermione is right. I should go up first and see how things stand.” He wished he could see Draco’s face. “Will you be okay? Do you mind waiting here very much?”

He felt Draco shrug, then heard a low chuckle. There was suddenly warmth near his ear and a low whisper. “I’m in the Gryffindor common room wearing an Invisibility Cloak. I think I can manage to keep myself entertained.”

* * * * * 

Hermione watched Harry disappear up the stairs to the boy’s dormitory, then realized with a small shock of annoyance and dismay that she now had no idea where Draco was. He might be standing inches away or across the room for all she knew. “Draco?” she whispered very softly, urgently. No answer. Or wait . . . was that a low laugh over by the sofa? 

She felt her face flush. Conscious that she would soon be making a spectacle of herself if she continued standing in the middle of the room now that Harry was gone, she walked cautiously back to the table where she’d been studying and sat down. She expected to brush against an invisible body at any moment, was half-fearful for a second that he would be in her chair and she would sit in his lap and scream, but nothing happened. 

Pretending to read, she let her eyes scan the room. _Where was he?_ Even if Hermione believed Draco had changed, she didn’t think that he would be able to resist this golden opportunity for trouble that had been so graciously handed to him by Harry’s poor judgment.

Luckily the common room was fairly empty. Lavender and Parvati were sitting at a table on the other side of the room talking quietly while working on a project for their Advanced Divination class. That group of three first-years, the ones she had almost tripped over, were still sitting on the floor nearby playing Exploding Snap. All of them were intent on their own pursuits.

Hermione sighed and relaxed a little. Then a movement on the other side of the room caught her eye. She tried not to stare, but sure enough, a book was slowly sliding off the shelf of the bookcase right behind where Lavender was sitting. Hermione tensed, expecting it to drop to the floor with a bang, but instead, it hovered in mid-air, opened, pages turned, then it closed and slowly floated back, slipping into its spot on the shelf.

_Well, at least now I know where he is_ , she thought.

Then Lavender twitched and looked around puzzled, rubbing her arm as if she had been touched by something. Hermione was watching openly now, making no pretense of trying to study. _What next?_

Suddenly both girls sat back, wide-eyed and startled, as the cover of one of their library books abruptly flipped open and pages started to turn. After watching for a shocked moment, suddenly Parvati reached over and grabbed Lavender’s hand. Hermione heard her whisper excitedly, “Lavender! This is it – what we’ve been waiting for! A mystical visitation!”

Lavender’s mouth dropped open, then she squeezed Parvati’s hand back. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “What do we do? The spirits are right here!” That last came out as something of a whispered squeal.

Hermione had to bite her lower lip to keep from laughing.

“Shh, just watch!” said Parvati. “I think they’re trying to tell us something!”

When the pages finally fell still, the girls grabbed the book. “Ooooh,” said Lavender, reading the page where it lay open now. “What do you think it means? Do you think we should use it in our report?”

“Oh, yes! Yes! Look at this!” said Parvati, pointing reverently to something on the page. “This is exactly what we were looking for! I can’t believe we missed it before.”

“Wow,” said Lavender, awed. “I can’t wait to tell Madam Sibyll about this.” She shivered, and pressed her hands over her heart. “To think – the spirits found _us_ worthy. It’s just so . . . _inspiring_.” The girls bent over the book, intent on the new spirit-revealed text.

Hermione grinned in the direction of her classmates. Had Draco actually shown them something they could use? It wouldn’t surprise her if he knew things like that. But just as she started to turn back to her reading, a bottle of ink that had been left on the table behind Parvati, rose slowly into the air. Hermione caught her breath. It floated right over Parvati’s head and ever so gradually began to tip. 

_Oh God_.

Both girls were too intent on their book to notice. Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth. Should she call out? The bottle of ink began to dance in the air, swinging back and forth in merry arcs, bouncing up and down, tipping ever further. Hermione was horrified for a second, then the realization hit that Draco knew she was watching. She raised one eyebrow and frowned in what she hoped was a good imitation of a stern Head Girl. It was a weak attempt and she knew it, but the bottle of ink stopped its dance and slowly sank back to its place on the table. Hermione sagged in her chair in relief. _Oh please hurry, Harry!_ she thought desperately.

Just then, a quarrel broke out among the card players. But before Hermione could say anything, the cards were suddenly plucked up into thin air from each of the players hands. The three boys were instantly silent, their eyes round in surprise. While they all watched, the cards shuffled themselves and were dealt into four neat piles. “Miss Granger,” said one of the boys in a tremulous tone. “What . . . is it?”

Hermione sat back, grateful for Draco’s astute handling of the situation and smiled. “It’s just a friendly, invisible ghost,” she said encouragingly, thinking quickly. “Guess he wants to play cards with you.” She felt her heart turn over. Draco was mischievous, but somehow he was managing to be endearing at the same time. It seemed she could trust him after all.

* * * * * 

Harry slipped into his dorm room and closed the door quietly. The room was dim and very still; the cool afternoon sunlight slanting in through the windows was the only light. “Ron?” he called softly. There was no answer. Then he heard a pained sigh and the sound of a book snapping shut. He walked past the foot of Ron’s bed, glancing between the curtains to see Ron toss aside his well-worn copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and run a hand through his red hair.

“Hey,” said Harry with hopeful friendliness, as he paused at the foot of his own bed to set his packages down on his trunk. Then he came to stand between his bed and Ron’s.

Ron, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, was looking steadfastly down at the coverlet and said nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Harry forged ahead in spite of Ron’s unresponsiveness. “I’m really sorry for not telling you about Draco sooner,” he said earnestly. “It’s just that I had to be sure myself before I said anything . . . considering who it was. It was so sudden and surprising – and it wasn’t an easy thing to talk about, knowing how much it would upset you.”

Ron glanced up and shook his head, his blue eyes alight with anger. “Sudden and surprising?” he echoed in disbelief. He gripped the bedclothes in his hands. “No bloody kidding. I knew he was up to something with you – but not . . . this!”

“I did try to tell you yesterday, out by the lake.”

Ron flushed, hurt replacing the anger in his eyes. “I get the jokes, now, Harry,” he said in an injured tone. “I bet you and Malfoy had a good laugh afterwards.”

“No, we didn’t,” said Harry simply. Ron looked away and Harry gazed at his roommate in silence, as the other boy seemed to struggle with what to say. “I’m sorry we teased you,” said Harry finally.

“I’ve done my best,” said Ron suddenly, turning back to face Harry, “to try to understand how you could do this, but I just can’t. Malfoy! We’ve _always_ hated him. We may have had our differences about things in the past, Harry, but never about that. And now you’re telling me . . . you’re in _love_ with him.” Ron’s voice broke from an overload of emotion. “Don’t you see? This makes me doubt . . . everything . . . I thought I knew about you!”

Harry shifted his gaze, looking down at the floor. “I haven’t changed, Ron,” he said firmly, after a moment.

Ron snorted and wrapped his arms around his knees. “If you haven’t changed, then I’ve never really known you,” he accused bitterly. “You never even told me you were gay, Harry. Is that why you and Cho broke up – why you wouldn’t tell us what happened? How many other things have you kept secret?”

Harry looked up at that, dismayed. Many things came to mind that he had kept to himself recently, not wanting to talk to Ron and Hermione about them. _But you told Draco_ , said a small voice in his mind. Guilt flared, burning the back of his throat. “I was . . . very upset . . . after Cho and I broke up,” he said, faltering. “There have been a few things lately that I just didn’t want to talk about,” he continued, not entirely sure of the explanation himself other than he had wanted it that way. “I didn’t mean to be keeping secrets.”

But he _had_ told Draco, had opened up and poured his heart out in fact, in a way he had not done with Ron or Hermione in a very long time. It wasn’t just the chess game – that they had to ask and answer questions. He’d told Draco things the other boy had never asked – had told him about not wanting to fight Voldemort again, for example. Harry couldn’t imagine telling Ron or Hermione that.

Maybe it was the way Draco listened to him, quietly and intently, as if he really wanted to know what Harry-the-person thought, instead of only wanting to hear a litany of what famous-hero-Harry-Potter was expected to think. Often, both Ron and Hermione seemed reluctant to hear things from him that didn’t fit the preconceived image of what that Harry Potter should be and do. So he had stopped talking about those things.

And the healing – that was just one more thing, like being able to speak Parseltongue, that made Harry different, that made him stand out when he longed to fit in. So even though it was the one subject he felt most excited about and engaged in, it had seemed somehow that revealing this newfound talent would be like adding fuel to an already out-of-control fire, and he had been unwilling to tell them that, too.

Feeling like he couldn’t stand up any longer, Harry sat down on the end of his bed and tried to pull his thoughts together to answer Ron’s question. “What happened with Cho had nothing to do with Draco . . .” he said finally, “or with me being gay – if I am – which I’m not sure about. I had no idea of it . . . then.” Harry stopped talking, at a loss for words to describe the rightness he felt with Draco, a rightness that had nothing to do with gender. Before he could frame words to try to explain that, Ron spoke.

In a small, tight voice, Ron said, “I understood when you wouldn’t talk to us about Cho at first. It was obvious how upset you were about breaking up with her. And then, even when you never did talk to me about it, I tried to understand. But this – I just can’t understand this. I don’t know how you can stand to touch . . . _him_. . . like that.”

“You can’t understand it because you don’t know him,” said Harry, his voice rising a little in irritation, feeling hurt by the resentment in Ron’s tone. “But I know him a lot better now, and he’s not at all like we thought. I mean, in some ways he’s still the same, but there’s another side to him that we never saw.” Harry paused, not sure from Ron’s expression that his words were getting him anywhere. “I just know that it feels right when I’m with him,” he tried again. “You said yourself that I looked happy – and I am. More than I’ve ever been with anyone else.”

He broke off again, feeling frustrated, as Ron continued to watch him without understanding. How could he explain all the things that had taken place in the last few days? There was so much, he didn’t even know where to begin, and many things were Draco’s private feelings that he had no right to tell. “Look,” he said quietly, resolved to stay calm, “I’ll try to tell you everything that happened, but I want Draco to be here too.” He paused. “He’s downstairs in the common room. Will you let me bring him up?”

Ron hissed. “You brought him in here?”

“Yes,” said Harry, defensively. “I want you to talk to him yourself. See for yourself that he’s different now – since you won’t believe me or Hermione.”

“That’s completely mental, Harry! You left him down there in our common room? Alone!?”

“Hermione is down there and knows where he is.”

“God, Harry. Am I the only one who can still see that he shouldn’t be trusted? Even Hermione has turned against me over this.”

“No, she hasn’t,” protested Harry, suddenly appreciating the awkward position Hermione had put herself in for him. “She’s not against you, Ron. It’s just that she has talked to Draco too, has seen how he’s changed.” Harry sighed. “We’re only trying to make you see that.”

“Don’t _you_ see, Harry? That’s exactly what worries me! It would be just like a Malfoy to pull this kind of trick – to pretend to change to make us lower our defenses. Think about it!” Ron seemed to be beyond caring what he said. “He’s a rich, spoiled, arrogant, pure-blood Slytherin – what the bloody hell does he see in you? But oh yeah – his father is a known Death Eater who would do anything to get his hands on you. Maybe it’s not so hard to figure out what he sees in you after all!”

Harry felt the blood rush to his face. “You think everything he’s done with me is fake – just part of a plan to trap me for Voldemort?”

Ron flinched at the name, then glared at Harry. “Yes! He’s a Malfoy!” he said, as if that alone was explanation enough. “I’m sure he’s involved in some plot with his father. It’s the only explanation that makes sense. I’ll bet he’s never actually said that he loves _you_.”

“I think I can tell the difference between someone who loves me and one who was just pretending to,” protested Harry, rather offended.

“You were wrong about Cho,” retorted Ron. “You said so yourself. That was the only thing you would say when Hermione and I asked you about it.”

That really stung. Harry, for a fraction of a moment, was cast back in time, into that self-doubt he had felt for so long after Cho had left. Was he wrong now about Draco? Was Ron right, that Draco was just acting a part with him? Was none of it real?

Harry closed his eyes, searching his heart for the truth, and to his surprise, felt Draco’s presence surround him, almost as if the other boy was there with him now. Like threads of reassurance weaving themselves into a whole cloth of certainty, memories of Draco came to him; his gentle, almost reverent touches, the way he trembled at Harry’s own touch, the way he melted into Harry’s kisses, the kindling warmth in those clear gray eyes, the caring in his words. The truth was in his eyes and voice and hands. It was real. And, he remembered with an upsurge of confidence, he hadn’t been wrong about Cho after all.

Harry opened his eyes and looked straight at his roommate. “I didn’t know the whole story about Cho then,” he said quietly, “and I was trying to make sense of it – of how she could seem to love me one night and then break things off the way she did the next morning. The only thing I could think was that it had all been wrong. I’m pretty sure now that wasn’t true.” He paused briefly. “I guess you can’t tell that Hermione cares about you. Without her saying so.”

“That’s ridiculous, Harry. Of course I can tell.”

“How?”

“Little things. Like her tone of voice, and how she . . . well, you know, Harry . . . private things.”

“Right. And I know the same way about Draco,” said Harry firmly. “He doesn’t have to say it in words, and I’m not going to pressure him to either.” 

Harry leaned back against the bedpost at the foot of his bed. “I doubt he will ever let you see him the way I have these last few days, so I know how hard it’s going to be for you to understand what’s happened between us.” He paused, thinking. “About the only way I can explain it is that I feel something . . . amazing, something right . . . when I’m with him. It’s always been there between us, we just didn’t know, or probably weren’t old enough to see, what it was. I think it was the reason we were always fighting and couldn’t leave each other alone, and why this change has happened so fast. But now that we know how we feel, I don’t think I could ever be with anyone else . . . and I’m sure he feels the same way.”

Ron looked away at this and said nothing.

Harry sat silently, wanting to give his roommate a chance to think about what he’d said, trying to think, too, of some example of how Draco had changed that Ron might understand. Memories surfaced, things Draco had confessed to him, of Draco lying in his arms, sobbing from the horror of what his father had done to him, the intimacy of touches and kisses shared. But he couldn’t say any of that to Ron. “There’s a lot I can’t tell you that he’s told me, because it’s too personal,” said Harry at last, when Ron still said nothing. “But I will say this. You’re the spoiled one, Ron, not him. You’ve never been alone or abused. You have no idea what it’s like. All your life you’ve had family around you. All your life you’ve been loved.”

Ron seemed to shrink down at that, as if his anger had partly deflated.

Seeing that, Harry made an effort to soften his next words. “Draco and I are, in a lot of ways, more alike than you and I are.”

“You can’t mean that, Harry,” said Ron mournfully, finally turning back to look at him.

“I don’t mean that you are less of a friend to me,” said Harry quickly. “It’s just that there are things about me that you will never quite understand as deeply as he can because you’ve always had a family that loved you,” he explained.

They sat in silence for a long moment. “And even if you thought he could trick _me_ , do you really think Hermione would be fooled?” continued Harry quietly, desperately trying to find a way through Ron’s stubborn determination not to believe them. “She’s not in love with him.” He looked at Ron’s taut, strained face and suddenly Ron just seemed tired and young and confused. He felt the strong bond of friendship he had with this boy reassert itself. “I happen to know that she’s very much in love with a certain stubborn red-headed git. If you can’t believe me, won’t you try to trust her?”

Ron propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands, his long fingers splayed through his hair. “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll talk to him. Once.”

Harry stood up. “Thanks,” he said in a subdued voice. He hesitated a second, then crossed the space between their beds to stand close to Ron. He half expected the red-head to flinch away, but he didn’t. “You’re my best friend,” he said softly. “I know this is hard, but you have to believe that I don’t want that to change.”

Ron sighed without looking up. “Okay,” he said again.

“I’ll be right back,” said Harry, heading for the door.

* * * * * 

Hermione watched Draco playing cards with the younger Gryffindors. Or rather, she watched his cards moving. But even that was enough to tell her that the boy who held them, and whose voice she could hear in an occasional soft snicker, was not the same sad person who she had talked to at the beginning of the year. And Harry. This morning, Harry had practically glowed. Seldom, since she had known him, had he ever looked like that. Most often he had been troubled, worried, sad. There had been something tense and missing in both of them until now.

At breakfast, she had been too puzzled by what Harry was up to and then too exasperated by Ron and Draco’s behavior to really think about it. Now though, she smiled into her book, and glanced up again in the direction of the floating cards. When Draco had smiled at Harry across the Great Hall this morning, it had been electric. No, she certainly had never seen Draco Malfoy smile like that. Harry had told her, _“It almost makes my heart stop when he does,”_ and she could well believe it. She could imagine Draco right now, grinning under the Invisibility Cloak, as he was clearly winning the game.

When Harry appeared at the foot of the stairs, Hermione looked up. Their eyes met and Harry gave her a shrug that seemed to indicate that things with Ron were still unresolved.

“Harry! Harry!” called one of the boys in the game. “Come see! There’s a ghost playing cards with us.”

Harry came down into the room and Hermione saw him grin at the scene before him. Just then, the invisible player slammed the winning card down with an ear-splitting snap. Then every card in the deck gathered together in a pile and suddenly flew up into the air, pelting down in all directions. The boys fell back laughing in delight, trying to catch them.

“Some ghost!” said Harry, with amused skepticism. “It acts more like a great invisible imp if you ask me!”

Hermione laughed, and thought she heard another soft easy laugh. A whisper of displaced air swept past her. A second later, Harry rocked back as if something had pushed him, and she saw his arms come up slightly and then fall as if he had naturally started to put them around someone and realized he shouldn’t. She watched Harry make a subtle motion to Draco to come with him, then turn and walk slowly back up the stairs.

That had to be a good sign, she thought, that Ron had agreed for Draco to come up. Just before Harry was up out of sight, she saw his arm go around an invisible waist as he leaned in to whisper in an unseen ear. And she found herself hoping against hope that there would be nothing to come that would ruin what they had found with each other – that nothing, not the war, or Lucius Malfoy, or worse, would ever come to tear them apart now – for it was as if neither had been quite whole before without the other.

* * * * * 

Draco pulled off the Invisibility Cloak just as soon as the door to Harry’s dorm room closed behind them. Harry watched him reappear, anxious to see his face, to know what he was thinking. As the cloak came off, Draco gazed curiously around the dimly lit room, then turned to Harry, one eyebrow arched up slightly, his expression calm but somewhat guarded. Harry reached up to smooth down some pale, fly-away wisps of hair and Draco favored him with a wry half-grin.

“Come on,” said Harry softly, taking Draco’s hand and starting across the room. “We can sit on my bed.”

“Ron?” Harry came around the end of Ron’s bed and stood for a second looking at his roommate. Ron didn’t look at him, instead his eyes were locked over Harry’s shoulder – on Draco. Harry turned and took the Invisibility Cloak from Draco and laid it next to the packages on his trunk, then sat down near the middle of his bed, pulling Draco to sit by him.

“Before you get any ideas, Malfoy,” said Ron in a hostile tone, “the password will be changed just as soon as you leave.”

Draco looked around the room with patent disinterest. “You needn’t worry about it, Weasley,” he retorted coolly. “There’s only one thing in here that I have any interest in. And he’s staying with me tonight.” Draco slipped his hand out of Harry’s grasp and put his arm around Harry’s waist and leaned against him.

It was definitely a possessive gesture, but Harry suspected it was partly for Draco’s own sense of security and comfort, too. Harry glanced at him and noted with a sinking feeling that Draco, far from being charming, was staring back at Ron, a mixed expression of barely masked antagonism and defiance in his eyes.

“If you don’t mind, Malfoy,” said Ron scathingly, “I don’t care to see that kind of stuff.”

“I do mind,” said Draco softly, refusing to move away from Harry.

The following silence stretched out, filled with unspoken conflict, and the room suddenly became oppressive to Harry. “I think I should start,” he said in a low voice, “since I said I’d try to explain things.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second. “First, I guess I should tell you about Cho.”

He felt Draco’s arm tighten around his waist in support, and found that he was decidedly glad for it. It had been hard to tell the first time, and didn’t feel any easier now. Leaning against Draco, with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, he said, “She broke up with me because she was getting married right after graduation.” He heard Ron gasp quietly in surprise, and looked up at him. “She told me the morning we were supposed to leave for summer break last year. That’s why I didn’t go home – I was too upset to get on the train.”

“God Harry,” said Ron, his eyes sympathetic for the first time that afternoon.

“I thought at first that she had known about it all along, that she’d been playing some kind of cruel game. I didn’t know about arranged marriages then, or that it’s most likely that she wasn’t even told herself until she was eighteen, which was only three weeks before the end of the school year.”

Ron nodded, his face stern. “Her family would be just the type to go in for an arranged marriage and all that stupid, outdated, pure-blood, traditional stuff.” His eyes shifted over to Draco, perhaps hoping that his words would be an insult to Malfoys as well as Changs, expecting to get a rise out of the Slytherin.

But Draco wasn’t really paying attention to Ron anymore, he was looking down, smiling slightly, and when Ron’s gaze followed Draco’s, he saw that while Harry had been talking, he had quite unconsciously laid his hand on Draco’s leg in a rather familiar and intimate way. While Ron watched, Draco reached over and placed his free hand over Harry’s. At the touch, Harry and Draco both looked up at each other. Their eyes met and locked, and Ron saw an unexpected, unguarded softness suffuse Draco’s features as Harry smiled. Ron got the distinct impression that the universe had suddenly excluded him, that they had forgotten he was even there. It was maddening.

“Harry,” he said abruptly, angrily, “listen to me. Cho really hurt you, and you’re not thinking straight. Malfoy’s just taking advantage of that – that you’re on the rebound and don’t know what you’re doing.” Ron felt a small surge of triumph. He had their attention now. Both Harry and Draco were staring at him. “I don’t understand,” he continued doggedly, “how you can have been with a beautiful girl like Cho and then want to be with . . . with him.”

“Ron, are you upset that I’m with Draco,” asked Harry evenly, a trace of the smile still lingering, “or that Draco is a guy?”

“Both – maybe – I don’t know, Harry. I never thought you would be the type to want to be with boys.”

“Oh, grow up, Weasley,” interrupted Draco with an impatient, irritated air. “Just because you and Harry are friends and it isn’t your cup of tea, doesn’t mean Harry has to feel the same.”

Ron gave Draco one cursory glance, then ignored him. “Harry, I just think that if you had . . . well, you know . . . slept with Cho, if you knew what it was like with a girl, he wouldn’t be able to . . . that is, you wouldn’t be interested . . . in him.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert on that now, Ron?” asked Harry, put out. “You and Hermione?”

Ron felt his face go hot. “No,” he said grudgingly.

Harry looked at Draco for a second, then back at Ron. “Well, I did sleep with Cho,” he said bluntly.

Ron’s jaw dropped. “You never told me that!” he gasped. He looked at Draco, to see how he had taken that news, but Draco was sitting calmly, his eyes on Harry. Suddenly Ron was furious. “But you’ve obviously told _him_!” he seethed.

“Of course, I did,” said Harry firmly. “If you’d been involved with someone before Hermione, wouldn’t you have told her?” Harry paused, then said, “Cho never made me feel the way I feel with Draco.”

Ron winced at that, the implication unavoidable, but for a moment he held that knowledge back as if he could deny it, the moment of awful irrefutable realization delayed by a mere heartbeat, as if it were a great weight hanging overhead, suspended only by one rapidly unraveling thread . . .

“Look, Weasley,” said Draco, speaking seriously, his gray eyes stern and unwavering, “I’ve wanted to be with Harry for a long time.”

And the truth, the reality of the situation, crashed down on Ron with brutal force. He hadn’t believed it. Until now. That Harry was holding hands with Malfoy, who had one arm around him, that Harry had told that git private things that he hadn’t told Ron, that they had spent the night together. That they were lovers. And he didn’t want any of it to be true.

“So you finally got what you’ve wanted all these years,” said Ron acidly. “That is just so touching. Don’t think I haven’t known. Ever since that first day on the train, you’ve been after him – and jealous of me being his friend. But that you would go this far – I find it completely unbelievable. I think it’s more likely that this is all just a nasty plot. How do I know you’re not just getting his guard down and then planning to turn him over to your Death Eater father!”

“Ron!” exclaimed Harry, aghast.

Draco had paled, and now regarded Ron from narrowed eyes. They studied each other in cold steely silence for several seconds. “You don’t,” said Draco finally in a taut icy voice.

“What, no declarations of innocence and undying love?” sneered Ron. “I should have known – I doubt you have it in you to love _anyone_.”

“Ron, stop it,” snapped Harry. “That’s going too far!”

“You don’t know _anything_ , Weasley,” snarled Draco, pulling away from Harry and coming suddenly to his feet. “But no matter how I feel about Harry, I am _not_ going to take shit from you about things when you have no clue . . .” He crossed his arms over his chest and gazed down at Ron with cold disdain. “I came up here because, even as absurd it may seem to me, your friendship means a lot to Harry.”

“I will _never_ be friends with _you_ , Malfoy!”

“How gratifying,” replied Draco coolly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s hardly the point. Are you too petty to set aside this childish feud even for Harry’s sake?”

“This isn’t just between us and you know it,” retorted Ron heatedly. “You’re involved with things . . . with people . . . who want Harry dead. How can you possibly expect me to trust you? Because you say so? Well, that’s not good enough. I’ll tolerate this idiocy if I have to, because Harry is asking me to. But I’m going to be keeping a close eye on you.” Ron paused and crossed his arms over his chest, his face hard. “And no matter how this turns out,” he said defensively, “I’m keeping my bouncing ferret memory – I’m not giving that up, not even for Harry.”

Draco’s chin came up slightly as if he’d been slapped, his jaw tightened and his fists clenched at his side. “Fine,” he said through his teeth. “You do that.” He glared at Ron for a second more, then with one swift agonized look at Harry, turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Oh hell, Ron,” gasped Harry, as he jumped up and ran to the door. “Did you have to say that! Draco! Wait!”

Half panicked by concern for Draco’s feelings, and the urgent need to stop him from going out through the Gryffindor common room without the Invisibility Cloak, Harry rushed out after the other boy, expecting to have to chase him down the stairs. Instead, he almost tripped over him. Draco was standing just outside the door at the top of the stairs, his back to the wall, head down, holding his arms tightly crossed over his chest. “Draco!” said Harry, both surprised and relieved as he caught hold of him.

Then Draco looked up. His eyes were burning with shame. “Does everyone remember that . . . that _ferret_ thing?” he hissed in a taut whisper.

“No,” said Harry, putting his arms around Draco’s tense body. “I’m sure they don’t. But Ron sort of thinks of it as a . . . well . . . a cherished memory. I’m afraid he won’t ever forget it.”

“You have no idea how humiliating that was. Being turned into a nasty, low, weaselly, little animal like that.”

“Shh,” said Harry. “Don’t think about it now.”

“A ferret of all things.” Draco shivered at the memory. “It was disgusting. And it hurt.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. At the time, he had been furious and thought Draco had deserved what he got – after all, the Slytherin had tried to hex Harry while his back was turned. But Harry had promised now to try to forget the past. “I thought you made a nice ferret,” he said finally, grasping at straws for something positive to say. “I meant,” he continued quickly, when Draco looked up at him with a hurt expression, “that you were a very pretty ferret – all white.” Harry reached up and gently stroked Draco’s hair, tucking it behind his ear. “Soft too, I bet.”

Draco’s eyes met Harry’s doubtfully. “You really thought so?”

“Well, not at the time,” said Harry honestly, a slightly apologetic grin catching up one corner of his mouth. “But . . . I could see it that way now.”

Draco smiled a little, then his expression hardened again. “I tried, Harry,” he said flatly. “I tried to do what you wanted me to. But I refuse to go back in there and talk to him again. I don’t think he’ll ever change his mind about me, no matter what I say.”

Harry couldn’t blame Draco for that after the things Ron had said. But he still believed Ron would eventually accept it. “It’ll take time,” he said after a moment. “He’ll come around – you’ll see. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but years from now, I’m sure we’ll all look back at this and laugh.”

“Years from now,” whispered Draco, his eyes softening into something sad and wistful and over-bright. He finally unwound from his tense stance enough to put his arms around Harry’s neck and pull Harry close. “I just want to be with you now – have you to myself for the next few days. I don’t want to think about anything else. Can’t we worry about Weasley after the Christmas holidays?”

Harry intended to talk to Draco again about this insane idea he had of going home. But now was not the time. He sighed.

Draco turned his face and kissed the tender place under Harry’s ear. “Let’s go now.”

“I think I need to stay,” said Harry regretfully, apology in his green eyes. “I don’t want to leave things with Ron the way they are now.” He touched Draco’s face gently. “Just a little longer. I could come up to your room right after dinner,” he suggested hopefully.

Draco hesitated a minute, then shrugged. “That’s fine,” he said, hiding his disappointment. “But tonight and tomorrow, Harry . . .” He looked up, gray eyes luminous with need. “No one else, okay?”

“Okay,” said Harry softly. “But there’s the Yule Ball on Monday night – it won’t be just us then.”

Draco’s hands came up to frame Harry’s face and pull him into a kiss. “It’ll still be just us,” he murmured against Harry’s mouth, “because I won’t notice anyone else there.”

Harry smiled. “Mmm. Neither will I.” Then Draco was kissing him intensely. Harry clung to him and pressed him back against the wall, overcome with the desire to stay lost in this kiss for a very long time.

Suddenly the door to Harry’s dorm room opened. Ron started out the door in a rush and nearly ran right into Harry and Draco, still kissing. “Oh, good God,” he exclaimed, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. Though Harry had talked about kissing Malfoy, Ron hadn’t been able to credit it, and the last thing he wanted to see was his best friend and worst enemy snogging, but it was too late. He had seen it, had had a good look, in fact, at the eloquently ardent expression on Malfoy’s face, at the way the Slytherin’s hands were cradling Harry’s face. As if he meant it.

The two pulled apart reluctantly, but Ron was already ducking back into the room. “Let me know when it’s safe to come out,” he groaned as the door slammed.

“Oh, what a bloody shame,” said Draco, in an amused, sarcastic drawl. “I didn’t even get to see his face. I’m sure it had to be as good as Snape’s.” He slipped his arms around Harry’s waist and pulled Harry back tightly, just in case Harry was thinking of letting Ron know the coast was clear. He wasn’t ready for it to be. “Where were we?” he asked, one eyebrow raised mischievously.

Harry grinned. “Here,” he said softly, leaning back into that wonderful kiss that had been so rudely interrupted.

Only a few seconds later, though, there was a loud sudden crashing on the stairs behind them, as if several very heavy things had fallen to the floor. Harry and Draco broke off the kiss abruptly and Harry turned around to see what had happened, Draco looking over his shoulder. On the landing of the stairs below, stood Harry’s other roommates, each holding a stack of books. Or rather, Neville had his hands over his eyes and a huge pile of books scattered around his feet. Dean was stooping down to pick up the books, while Seamus was beaming up at them, grinning like an idiot.

“Oh, geez, Neville!” laughed Seamus, turning to look at his shy roommate. “You saw them do that this morning! Are you going to hide your eyes every time?”

“Here, you,” said Dean, shoving Neville’s stack of books at Seamus. “You can carry his the rest of the way since you’re obviously immune to it.” He glanced up at Harry with a smile after making sure Seamus had a good grip on the armload of books, then turned to Neville. “It’s okay,” he said, tapping Neville’s shoulder. “You can look now.”

Neville peeked out between his fingers, and let his hands drop. “Hi, Harry,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “Hello, Mal- . . . er, Dra- . . . Draco. We’ve been to the library . . . for our Herbology project,” he added unnecessarily.

Draco wrapped his arms around Harry from behind, hugging him for a moment. “I should go,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I say, Harry,” crooned Seamus. “Keepin’ him in a good mood now, I see!”

Harry felt a light kiss on the back of his neck, then Draco was off down the stairs.

Draco stopped when he got to Seamus, put a hand on his shoulder and leaned close to Seamus’ ear. “And he’s going to go right on keeping me in a good mood . . . all night,” he said in a low seductive voice. Then he was gone, the sound of books crashing to the floor following him down the stairs.

Seamus looked up at Harry, one hand reverently touching the ear Draco had brushed against, oblivious to the pile of books at his feet. “Dear Mary Mother of God – ” he whispered, awestruck.

Dean and Neville burst out laughing at him. Harry grinned and shook his head.

It wasn’t until the screams erupted from the common room a few seconds later that Harry remembered that Draco had indeed walked out without the Invisibility Cloak. He heard Draco’s amused low voice say, “Afternoon, ladies,” and then Hermione was talking, taking over, shooing him out, trying to explain. Harry grinned. For once he was perfectly content to let Hermione handle things. Then he looked at his roommates apologetically. “Do you guys mind studying in the common room for a little while? I need to talk to Ron.”

* * * * * 

When Harry came back in the room, Ron was leaning on the window casement, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring out the window between their beds.

At Harry’s approach, Ron turned to look over his shoulder, past Harry, then looked back at Harry. “Is he gone now?” he asked. The tone was still quarrelsome, but a lot of his anger seemed to have been spent.

“Yes,” said Harry, tiredly. “I think you owe him an apology. He acted a lot better than you did. He didn’t do anything to deserve the insulting things you said.”

Ron faced the window again, the truth in Harry’s words increasing his dismay at the situation. Draco _hadn’t_ given him cause, except for the past they shared, to have acted the way he had, nor had Draco fought back, rising to the bait in anger, returning the taunts the way he always had before. The words “childish feud” had rung in his ears long after Draco had left the room. Was that all it was – all it had been all these years? Maybe Harry and Hermione were right, that Draco _had_ changed, but Ron was far from ready to admit it.

“I don't like him,” he said stubbornly, defensively, remembering things his father had told him about Lucius Malfoy. “And what’s more important, I don't trust him. What do you want me to do, Harry? Lie?”

“You, more than anyone, know how hurt I was over Cho. I had hoped you would be glad I've found someone to be with – that I’m happy.”

Ron was silent for a long time. “I could be glad for you, Harry, if it was just a matter of me not liking him. But there’s a lot more than that going on here. How can you be so sure that you can trust him? Even if he’s serious about this . . . relationship . . . with you, which I’m not convinced of yet, he’s still a danger. He could be playing you right into his father’s hands.”

“I have to trust him, Ron. And I can’t believe he would do that. I know he wouldn’t.”

“Harry,” said Ron, turning to face his roommate, “I don’t think you get it. Even if he didn’t want to, don’t you realize that they could _make_ him do it? You’re not safe with him. And I hate to say it, but if he’s _not_ on their side, then he’s not safe with you either. What do you think they’ll do to _him_ , after they’ve used him to get to you?”

This was uncomfortably close to what Snape had said. Harry sank down to sit on his bed. “I know,” he said very quietly. “And I’m worried sick about it. He’s determined to go home over Christmas, and even Snape said he shouldn’t – that I shouldn’t let him get near his father.”

Ron sat down suddenly across from Harry. “Snape knows?” he asked, incredulously. “About the two of you – that you’re . . . you know . . .” Words failed him.

“Romantically involved?” supplied Harry. He flopped back on his bed. “Yeah, he knows, and he’s made it very clear that he doesn’t approve. For the exact same reasons you just said.” Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then a small grin broke on his face, and after a second he started laughing. “Oh Ron, you should have seen his face when he found out! He was yelling at Draco because he thought we were fighting in the hall, and wouldn’t believe that we weren’t – that we were kissing instead. So Draco kissed me to prove it. It was brilliant.”

“Holy shit, Harry! He kissed you in front of Snape!?”

“He did!” said Harry, sitting up. He put his glasses back on and grinned at his roommate. “And Snape looked all puffed up and green and shocked, like he had swallowed something nasty and it got stuck in his throat. I thought Draco and I were going to die laughing!” Harry couldn’t help laughing again at the mental image that conjured.

Ron looked half scandalized and half dubious, first at the idea of Draco and Harry kissing in front of Snape of all people, and then at the idea of Draco laughing for fun, an image he had difficulty visualizing.

“I wanted to tell you, then,” continued Harry sincerely. “The first thing I thought was ‘God, Ron would have loved to have seen that.’ But then, the second thing I thought was that you would have looked just like him. Seems like you and Snape have something you agree on after all.”

Ron grimaced in feigned horror, then sobered. “I hate to say this, Harry, but I do agree with him. You and Malfoy are not good.”

“And I’ll tell you exactly what I said to Snape,” said Harry with quiet determination in his voice. “That I’m serious about this and that I don’t intend to stop seeing him. We _know_ how impossible everything is – how uncertain.” He paused, regarding his roommate, a candid plea for understanding in his eyes. “Even if I knew for a fact that being with him was dangerous, I couldn’t stop it. I love him, Ron. Like you love Hermione.”

When Ron didn’t say anything, Harry stood up and walked to the end of his bed. “I have to pack now,” he said. “I’m planning to stay with him again tonight.” He moved his Christmas packages aside and opened his trunk. “What would you do,” he asked quietly after a moment, “if it was you and Hermione in this mess? At least you guys can be open about how you feel – ”

“Oh God, Harry,” said Ron suddenly. “Hermione. I completely forgot.” Ron looked despairingly at the packages Harry was putting away inside his trunk. “I meant to go to Hogsmeade today – to find a ring for her. I worked all summer for Fred and George to save up the money for it, and I wanted to give it to her for Christmas, to make the engagement official after we tell our parents when we’re at the Burrow. But it’s so late now and I don’t even know where to go shop for something like that.”

A ring. Harry bit his bottom lip for a second to contain the small thrill shiver the thought stirred in him, then he remembered the rings he had looked at that afternoon, especially that lovely gold one with the blue stones. “I know a place,” he said. “It’s just a small jewelry shop, but I saw a lot of rings there today.”

Ron looked up, desperation in his eyes. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

“I’ll do better than that,” said Harry with sudden resolve. “We have over an hour until dinner. If we hurry, we can get there before it closes and be back in plenty of time.” He grabbed up his bookbag and dumped the contents out on his bed. “Just let me pack my stuff for tonight.”

* * * * * 

As Draco got to the third landing in the Slytherin tower, a lone dark figure detached himself from the wall where he’d been leaning, waiting, and moved to block Draco’s ascent. “Blaise,” said Draco tautly, nodding a reserved greeting, his guard up. He side-stepped to get around the other boy.

“Wait,” said Blaise harshly, his hand coming up to grasp Draco by the upper arm, catching him up short. “You have some explaining to do.”

Draco gazed coolly down at the hand on his arm, then back up at the other boy’s face, his eyes narrowed. He stood up straight, somehow managing to seem taller, more powerful, without making any move to detach himself from the other boy’s grip. “Is that so?” he countered in a low, sardonic voice. “Do tell.”

“I saw you at the Three Broomsticks today. Sitting with Harry Potter.”

“So what,” said Draco with icy arrogance, flipping his hair back with a practiced unconcerned air. “How is that any business of yours?”

“So, a lot of people might be interested to know how friendly you were getting with him. Looked quite cozy, if you ask me. Some people might question your loyalty to the cause.”

Cold, calculating gray eyes studied Blaise’s face for a long moment. “And what _cause_ is that, Blaise?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about. The Slytherin cause – following the Dark Lord.”

“Following?” Draco snorted softly, derisively. “Since when does being Slytherin mean acting like a bunch of mindless sheep?”

Blaise tightened his grip on Draco’s arm. “Those are dangerous words, my _friend_. If I tell – ”

Draco jerked his arm out of Blaise’s grasp, grabbed the front of Blaise’s shirt at the neck and straight-armed him back against the wall, hard. “Mind your place, Zabini,” he hissed. “You’re not my keeper.”

Then he leaned close and spoke, his voice intense and menacingly quiet. “There’s a game being played here that you know nothing about. Right now, I hold the critical piece in the palm of my hand – but how I play that game is of _my_ own choosing. My loyalties, my cause, are my own and always have been.” He fixed Blaise with a contemptuous glare. “You’d better pick your sides carefully, _friend_. I play to win.”

Blaise shook his head, nervous now. “I don’t get you, Malfoy.”

“Then let me make it easy for you to understand,” Draco snarled. “You breathe one word of this, or cause my plans to be screwed up in any way, and it will be _your_ pitiful, pathetic carcass I take to the slaughter. _Some people_ would be extremely interested in finding out exactly what you caused me to lose.” Draco twisted the fabric of Blaise’s shirt, tightening it around his throat. “Your life won’t be worth the air you breathe. Are you clear on _that?_ ”

Blaise’s eyes went wide for a second in belated comprehension, and he tried to get his breath. “You . . .” he gasped, “you’re going to get Potter for the Dark Lord yourself!” He turned his head, trying to lessen the stifling stranglehold Draco had on him, and laughed uneasily. “Draco,” he said in a placating tone, “surely you know I would never do anything to upset you . . . or interfere with your plans?”

Draco gave him a look of pure loathing, then shoved him roughly away. “See that you don’t,” he spat, then turned his back and continued up the stairs to his room, closing the door behind himself with deliberate care, so that he didn’t slam it off its hinges.

He’d come back up here to drop off the ring box and to pick up the gem transfiguration book, intending to return it to the library before dinner. He had walked to his wardrobe and tucked the box in the drawer where the jar of potion was, then gone all the way over to his desk to get the book, before he realized he was shaking. For a moment, he stood rigidly still, staring down blindly at the book on his desktop, seething with anger. How dare Blaise question him! And before that, Weasley. It was too much. Why did anyone else have to be involved at all? Why couldn’t everyone just leave him, and Harry, the hell alone?

With cold fury he swept the cut glass inkwell off his desk. The bottle flew wide, crashed against the wall and shattered, leaving a great black splatter that poured and dripped down the stones into an inky puddle full of sharp glass on the floor.

He only wanted Harry to be his, alone and solely his, for just a few days. Was that so much to ask of the world? Was that so much to ask when Harry would never be his again? 

Draco watched the dark spreading stain with a bitter heart, then swore softly and pulled out his wand. That inkwell was an expensive antique, a gift from his mother. “ _Reparo_ ,” he muttered. He picked up the restored bottle, set it on the desk, took the library book, cast one last glance at the weeping blackness running down his wall and left the room, his mood perfectly matching the color of that spilled, smeared pool of ink.

With a swift stride, he set off to the library. He met no one on the stairs, and that was a very good thing, he thought. The incident with Blaise had set him on edge, and he had no desire to have to talk to anyone. Other students he passed in the corridors ducked out of his way, but he barely noticed.

What was going to happen if he went to the Yule Ball with Harry, how would the other Slytherins react? Was there any possibility that they could wreck his careful plans? He was confident he’d taken care of Blaise. He ticked off a mental list of his housemates and finally began to relax. Except for Pansy, there really wasn’t anyone else that concerned him. And he could handle Pansy. One corner of his mouth lifted up in disgust – he could handle her as long as she didn’t throw herself on him. The thought made him sick for a moment, but then he shook the feeling off and realized that he had nothing to worry about. The girls they were going with were Slytherin, so really it was Harry who was going to have to explain the most.

And curse it all, he decided, if Harry wanted to go to that bloody dance, then they were damn well going to go. He hoped everyone had a stroke from the shock of it. Picturing that, especially the irresistible mental image of that prim-cat McGonagall falling over into a dead faint when her precious Harry showed up in the company of three Slytherins, including none other than Draco Malfoy, made him feel much better. And oh, he couldn’t wait to see Pansy’s face when he showed up with those sixth year girls. In fact, he was starting to think that the whole thing might turn out to be quite enjoyable. He was almost grinning by the time he handed the book back to Madam Pince.

With an hour or so to kill before dinner, he didn’t want to go back to his room. So he walked back among the stacks of library books, running his fingers lightly over the spines, letting his anxieties about the future fade for a time into the absorbing hush of the ancient manuscripts, the reassuringly familiar, faint musty smell of aged paper as good as a soothing balm to his weary emotions. His thoughts turned to the coming evening, and the next day, that Harry had promised they would spend together, alone.

Then Monday would come with final classes for the term and the Yule Ball, Tuesday would be spent in a flurry of packing as everyone prepared to go home for the holidays, and finally on Wednesday, Christmas Eve, he would be leaving early on the train with everyone else. Tonight and tomorrow would really be the only time they would have completely to themselves.

_Such a short time to love someone for a lifetime_ , he thought.

He reached the end of the long bookshelves and turned left, walking along the barrier of the Restricted Section until he got to the far corner. There were high arched windows here that looked out over the front grounds of the castle. Outside, long indigo tree shadows striped the snow-dusted grass in the low, late afternoon sunlight. The snow was still falling very slowly, small swirling flakes that spiraled up as often as down, floating wherever the wind took them.

Draco could see his reflection dimly in the glass, a pale, tired and sober face he didn’t want to look at, so he leaned his head against the cold pane, too close then to see himself, and focused his attention outside – just in time to see two boys leave the castle and set off toward Hogsmeade.

The sight of one of them made his heart catch, and the other made the bitter ache rise up in his throat again. There was no denying that he had always been jealous of Weasley’s friendship with Harry. He watched the black-haired boy walk away from him until he was lost to sight in the distance and the dancing snow flurries. Then he turned his cheek to the glass and stood for a moment with his eyes closed.

Now that he was involved with Harry, Draco missed him intensely whenever they were apart. Loneliness washed over him now, and he felt bereft and hurt to the core.

But he’d known Harry was with Weasley – what did it matter if they were up in Harry’s room or walking to Hogsmeade. Harry had promised to be with him after dinner, to stay with him all night and all day tomorrow.

He searched his heart, teasing at the ache, and was surprised to find the memory of Harry’s touch hidden there like a small warm comforting glow. And as he explored it, the feeling expanded, was suddenly so tangible, so there, now that he had found it, that he could almost believe Harry was right here with him, holding him, coaxing that world of heartache and hurt away with his gentle touch.

Draco sighed, and for a fleeting second a small triumphant smile replaced the frown of a moment ago. Harry might be walking to Hogsmeade with Weasley this afternoon, but it was Draco he was going to be staying with tonight. He only had to wait until after dinner, and that was not so long from now.

But the image of the Great Hall, loud and buzzing with voices, his weariness of having to sit with the other Slytherins, particularly after his confrontation with Blaise, made the prospect of dinner tonight suddenly unappetizing. Emotionally, this day had worn him out. He’d kept the promise he’d made to himself not to deny Harry anything and had given in on quite a few things during the course of the day.

Oddly though, he thought now to himself, instead of feeling like sacrifices, his concessions to Harry had made him feel secretly pleased and elated. Still, it had been an exceedingly trying day. He longed to just go to his room, to relax in Harry’s company. Harry had a promise to keep too, he remembered with a thrill, since Draco had agreed to talk to Weasley.

He wrinkled up his nose. Weasley. That had been a disaster. Just as he’d expected, Weasley hadn’t been able to see past the past, even with the truth sitting and glaring right at him in the present from Harry’s bed. Draco wanted to shrug it all off, but there was one thing Weasley had said this afternoon that had stuck in Draco’s mind, worrying at him, until he had resolved that there was something he had to tell Harry tonight. So he particularly wanted tonight to be special. If only they could . . . 

And the beginnings of an idea blossomed slowly in his mind. A perfect idea. He stood up and grinned, then left the library, headed down to the lower levels of the castle.

* * * * * 

Ron and Harry walked to Hogsmeade, the situation and the tension from their talk that afternoon still making things awkward between them. Harry asked about Ron’s plans over the holidays, and Ron told him – a very short version. Most of the long walk was spent in uncomfortable silence. It was just before five o’clock, and almost dark, when they got to the Polished Stone. Golden light still spilled out of the front windows and Harry breathed a sigh of relief that the shop had stayed open. He ushered Ron in the door as the bell announced them with a lilting chime.

“Mr. Potter!” smiled the shop-keeper looking up. “Back so soon? Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Oh, no,” Harry assured him. “I’ve brought a friend. He needs to find an engagement ring.”

“Well now,” exclaimed the man, beaming at Ron. “Excellent! We have lots to choose from. Take your time and just let me know if you want to look at anything.”

They spent several minutes looking down into the glass cases at the velvet tiers of rings until Harry tapped Ron’s arm. “Look at this one, Ron. I noticed it earlier today,” he said, pointing out the gold band with the three dark blue stones.

Ron’s face lit up and he whistled softly. “That’s perfect, Harry. Hermione will love it.” Then he whispered, “Do you think I can afford it?”

Harry bent down and squinted through the glass at a tiny tag attached to the ring by a thin string. “I think it says . . . er . . . sorry, I can’t quite make it out.”

Ron bent down too, and after a moment, he grinned, and stood up to signal the store-keeper. “I have just enough,” he said aside to Harry as the man unlocked the case.

Next to Ron, Harry watched the man put the ring into a dark blue velvet box. Suddenly he felt his face flush, his heart skipped, and he couldn’t help breaking out into a smile as he remembered that Hermione wasn’t the only one who might be getting a ring for Christmas.

Ron turned to him just then, glanced at his expression, and gave him a quizzical look.

Managing for a moment to hide his smile, Harry backed up a couple of steps. “I’ll wait outside while you finish up,” he said and fled out the door.

The snow was still falling lazily, but the flakes were larger now, and the ground was beginning to show small drifts next to the walls. Standing in the lamplight outside the door, Harry turned his grinning face up to the sky and let the icy brush of the snowflakes cool his heated skin. What would it mean, he wondered, for Draco to give him a ring? He shivered, not from the cold, but from the happy thrill of anticipation.

Ron came out of the door a moment later. “What were you on about in there?” he asked, puzzled.

“I just remembered something nice, that’s all,” said Harry.

“No more secrets, Harry.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Okay then,” he said. “I think Draco is giving me a ring for Christmas, too.”

“Oh,” said Ron in a low voice. “Is he now.”

“He showed me the box this afternoon when we were at the Three Broomsticks.”

Something about that idea didn’t sit too well with Ron, but he was in far too good a mood at the moment to dwell on it. Instead, he grinned at Harry and changed the subject. “Speaking of the Three Broomsticks,” he said, “I have just enough money left to treat you to a butterbeer. I really have to thank you for this,” he said, patting his pocket.

Harry smiled back, glad that Ron hadn’t made an issue out of Draco giving him a ring. The butterbeer sounded good, but Harry was becoming impatient to get back to Hogwarts. He took another look at the snow coming down and shook his head. “I think we’d better be going,” he said. “This snow is getting thick.”

Ron scanned the sky and nodded. “I guess you’re right. But I’ll owe you one.”

* * * * * 

In about half an hour, Draco was back in the library, feeling inordinately pleased with himself. As he headed for the window in the far corner, he wound his way through the towering library shelves to the Potions section and scanned the titles of the books there. Finally, he pulled down a thin volume with a dingy, worn red cover and opened it to the front page. _Obscure and Deadly Potions of the Dark Ages: A Master’s Guide to Poisonous Brews and the Wizards Who Died Making Them_.

Draco laughed a little to himself, wondering if Snape had read this one. He took the book with him to the window, and there he curled up on the window ledge to lose himself for a time in the drama and folly of ancient potion making, and to wait and watch for Harry to come back from Hogsmeade.

* * * * * 

Walking back, Harry could tell that Ron was in a much better mood than he’d been in on the way to town, but he was still quiet, as if he were thinking about something. Harry walked along beside him, grateful that the fierce tension that had been between them this afternoon was gone. When it appeared that Ron wasn’t going to talk, Harry let himself get lost in his own thoughts, wondering what Draco might be planning for them tonight, wondering how he was going to manage to sleep with Draco all night without wanting him, without breaking his promise to wait, wondering how far he could push the limit of that promise.

“Harry?” said Ron quietly.

“Hmm,” responded Harry, absently.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?” asked Harry, still wrapped up in thoughts of what he wanted to do in Draco’s warm bed.

“You know,” said Ron in an exaggerated low voice, pausing for a second to grin at him. “Sex. What’s it like?”

Harry groaned, and blushed, but then grinned back. “That’s really personal, you git.”

“Oh, c’mon, Harry,” teased Ron with a laugh. “Give a bloke a break. I’m not likely to find out for ages.”

Harry had to laugh at that. He could well imagine that Hermione kept a tight rein on things. He walked a little further in silence, thinking hard about what he could possibly say in answer to Ron’s question. “Well,” he said finally, slowly, “with Cho, I’m sure I thought at the time that I’d never felt anything more wonderful, but what happened with her is all mixed up now with memories of how she broke up with me and how hurt I was. It’s hard to remember too,” he continued thoughtfully, “because of Draco, and how much more I like being with him.”

It was Ron’s turn to walk on in silence for a bit. “You really like being with Malfoy better?” he asked at last.

“Yes,” said Harry. “A lot.”

“I just can’t see doing that with another boy.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s not so very different. Who it is and how they make you feel matters more than anything. And,” he said, with a low laugh, “from my vast experience of being with two people, I’d say that boys are a lot more . . . er . . . keen on it . . . than girls. Cho hardly let me touch her until that last night.”

“Maybe so,” conceded Ron. “But of course,” he added with a scornful tone, “this is Malfoy we’re talking about. No offense, Harry, but he’s always had a reputation for sleeping around.”

“Ron!” exclaimed Harry, exasperated, “none of the rumors were true. He never slept with any of those girls. In fact, you really insulted him yesterday with that harem remark.” Harry paused, then decided to tell Ron the truth. “Draco and I came very close last night, but we haven’t actually done it yet.”

Ron took a few more steps as he worked through the full impact of this information, then he stopped in his tracks. “Bloody hell, Harry! Are you telling me Draco Malfoy is a – ”

“Yes!” said Harry, cutting Ron off. “And don’t you dare tell that to anyone – not even Hermione. This is a perfect example of what I’ve been trying to tell you – that he’s not what you think.” Harry turned and started walking again. “Besides,” he said with a grin, when Ron had caught up, “that won’t be for much longer. I plan to change that very soon.”

With a grimace, Ron said, “I still can’t fathom why you’d want to. But now that you’ve told me, I’m actually not surprised he’s never slept with anyone. He always acts so arrogant and exclusive – who would be good enough? He probably couldn’t stand for anyone to touch him.”

Harry got a mental picture of a panicked Draco trying to fend off Pansy’s advances in the stairwell and laughed. “I think that with most people, you’re probably right. But he’s not like that with me. He definitely likes me to touch him.” Harry could feel his cheeks burning in the frosty air, and was glad that it was dark. He went on though, determined to use this opportunity to get Ron to hear him out. “When we’re alone, he’s warm and funny and er . . . passionate . . .” Harry blushed again. “And very honest about his feelings.”

Ron snorted in disbelief. “I can’t imagine him like that.” Then the image of Draco kissing Harry outside the dormitory door popped disturbingly into his memory. “Well . . . I guess I saw a little of it – out on the stairs,” he admitted.

“I was pretty surprised by it at first. I understand now that he keeps that side of himself very private.” Harry took a deep breath. “I love how I feel with him, Ron. Compared to Cho, he’s just so much more . . . well . . . intense. I’ve never felt anything like it – it’s like the exact thing I’ve been wanting and waiting for.”

Ron sighed and gave Harry a serious look. “I want you to be happy, Harry. I really do – I hope you know that. So I wouldn’t mind if that meant you were with Malfoy, _if_ I was sure he cared about you and _if_ I was sure he could be trusted.” Ron paused and shook his head. “But I can’t be sure. Not yet, anyway. There’s just too many things that are suspicious for me to believe him.”

Harry nodded, choosing for the moment to ignore Ron’s distrust and be glad for Ron’s admission that he would accept Draco in Harry’s life once he was sure about his motives. “So you’ll at least give him a chance to prove himself?” he asked, pressing his friend just a little farther.

“I guess I’ll have to,” Ron said, his tone reluctant but resigned.

Harry grinned. The lights of Hogwarts appeared, glimmering in the distance at the end of the road, casting twinkling sparks of golden color through the intricate zigzag weave of slowly falling snowflakes. “Great!” he called playfully, punching Ron in the shoulder and sprinting off. “Race you back!”

Ron hesitated only a split second, before taking off after Harry with a laugh, his hand closed carefully over the precious box in his cloak pocket.

* * * * * 

Harry and Ron had come in from outside only a few moments ago and were standing just inside the main entrance doors. Both of them were red-cheeked and grinning, shaking snow off their cloaks, when Draco started down the main stairs. Harry looked up and saw him first, hands in his pockets, his head down, blond hair falling over his forehead. Harry felt his heart skip a beat.

Ron looked up too and went still, watching.

Draco stepped off the bottom stair and his chin came up. He shook his hair back and looked straight at Harry. After a second’s hesitation, he came forward across the entrance hall to them, an enigmatic smile tilting up the corners of his mouth. “Shopping _again_ , D-W?” he asked when he was close to Harry.

“Oh, shh,” laughed Harry, blushing at the nickname. “I took Ron to look for a ring for Hermione. I saw some in the jewelry shop I was in this morning.”

One pale eyebrow shot up. “Jewelry shop?” Draco’s eyes lit with interest. “Now I wonder who you were shopping for in there? Me maybe?” he queried, giving Harry a flash of that mesmerizing full smile. Then he turned to Ron, meeting the red-haired boy’s guarded gaze evenly, a hint of the smile still visible. “Mind if I look at it, Weasley?” he asked with an unconcealed air of superiority. “I do know a little something about gems.”

“Yes, I mind,” replied Ron, purposefully echoing Draco’s earlier remark and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Ron,” protested Harry, holding his hand out for it. “He’s not going to hurt it.”

Ron reluctantly fished out the small ring box, then watched as Harry handed it to Draco.

Draco lifted the lid and hummed approval. “These blue stones are Lapis,” he stated. “Good choice.” Then he got an amused look. “But don’t tell Granger they’re supposed to have mystical properties.” He nodded at Ron as he handed the box back. “ _Very_ nice. It suits her.” He regarded Ron with that expression of amusement still in his eyes. “I’m forced to admit, Weasley,” he said, “that you have good taste in rings . . . and women. But what Granger sees in _you_ is beyond my comprehension.”

Ron looked up in surprise from pocketing the ring, bristling a little by habit, well aware that he’d been both complimented and insulted at the same time – a Malfoy specialty, no doubt. But the tone was teasing, no definite ill will behind it. “I’m sure Hermione sees a lot, Malfoy, that _is_ beyond your comprehension,” he responded tautly. He paused a second, then added, awkwardly, “And mine.”

Harry looked from Ron’s face to Draco’s. There was definitely tension between them, but it was clear that both were trying to keep things civil. Harry hadn’t expected their animosity toward each other to be diffused quickly, so he took this as a sign of progress. “We should go in to dinner,” he said, trying to move things along before there could be any deterioration of that progress. But Draco reached out and touched his arm lightly.

“I have something else in mind, Harry,” he said, looking smug. “A surprise – up in my room.”

“Now?” Harry looked longingly at the Great Hall. “What about dinner?” he asked plaintively. “I’ve walked between here and Hogsmeade three times since lunch and I’m starving!”

Draco broke into a grin, a hint of excitement showing on his face. “Then hurry up. The sooner you come, the sooner we can eat.”

“Okay, I’m coming,” said Harry with a laugh. “But _this_ surprise had better not have anything to do with potions,” he teased. “Just let me get my bag.” He walked over to a suit of armor near the far corner and reached behind it, pulling his bookbag from where he had hidden it on the way out with Ron earlier.

Ron took advantage of Harry’s momentary absence. Looking down at Draco, he said in a very low voice, “If you do anything to hurt him, Malfoy, I swear I will kill you.”

Draco’s smile faded instantly and he gave Ron a cool, disinterested look, but there was something hard and bleak, almost desolate, behind his narrowed eyes. “You’ll have to get in line, Weasley,” he said coldly, dismissively. “You won’t be the only one.” He turned his head to watch Harry. “I never meant for this to happen,” he added so softly that Ron barely heard him. Then he turned his back on Ron and walked away toward the Slytherin tower, pausing to look back for Harry, then waiting for him to catch up.

Harry waved at Ron with a grin and then they were gone, leaving Ron standing alone outside the Great Hall with an unsettling sense of misgiving in his gut. With an uneasy sigh, he went in to dinner, hoping Hermione was waiting for him. There were a lot of things he needed to think about, and a lot he needed to tell her – he might even be willing to concede that Malfoy may have changed. But Ron still thought he smelled a rat – and rats, he concluded bitterly, were something he knew better than anyone else.


	12. Part II — The Game — Chapter 12

  


_If it were love I would give that love every second I had_  
_And I do_

Lyrics from “Heaven Help My Heart” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Trailing up the stairs of the Slytherin tower, close behind Draco, Harry felt a bit nervous about being seen since Draco had hurried up the stairs without giving him time to put on the Invisibility Cloak. “We’re not likely to run into anyone right now – it’s dinnertime,” Draco assured him, when Harry voiced his apprehensions as they quietly wound their way up the spiraling stairs. “But if we do . . . I can always use another memory-spell.” He grinned wickedly at Harry. “Right now, I’d love an excuse to punch Pansy in the nose and then make her forget how it happened.”

Luckily for Pansy, they met no one on the stairs.

Harry was still wearing his winter cloak and wool muffler from walking back from Hogsmeade, but there was something about the closed-in, stony cold of this tower that chilled him in a way that being outside in the frosty fresh air didn’t. The Gryffindor tower was never this unrelentingly cold – it was as if the dankness of the dungeons followed Slytherin House, even up into their tower.

Harry shivered slightly while he waited for Draco to unlock his door, and was very grateful to slip safely into Draco’s room. The fire was already lit in the hearth and to Harry, as he stepped inside, the room seemed a startling contrast and relief after the tense, frigid trip up the icy tower; it was welcoming and familiar, filled with warmth and sweet memories, a place he belonged in now. He relaxed, the tension of the climb up the stairs forgotten, and smiled as he set his bookbag down just inside the door and began to undo the clasp of his cloak.

Draco leaned up against him for a moment, pressing a brief kiss on the corner of his mouth, then took Harry’s scarf and cloak and hung it by the door. “Close your eyes,” he said, taking Harry’s hand.

Harry did as he was told and allowed himself to be towed blindly away from the door. “What are you up to, now?” he asked, grinning, both amused and mildly suspicious.

They only went a few steps before Draco stopped. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “You can look now.”

Harry opened his eyes and found himself standing by the table in front of the fireplace, but instead of the chessboard that had been there, the table was covered with a white cloth, and laid with the gold dinnerware from the Great Hall. Two candles stood on either side.

Draco pulled out his wand. “Incendio,” he said softly, and the candles flamed with a honeyed glow.

Harry’s face lit with surprise and pleasure. He slipped one arm around Draco’s waist and pulled him close, his gaze still held by the unexpected sight of Draco’s table laid out for a romantic dinner. “Do we really get to eat here?” he asked turning to Draco with a delighted smile. “In your room?”

Draco smiled, exceedingly pleased with Harry’s reaction. “We do,” he said. “No loud, unruly Great Hall, no boring, nosy housemates . . . just us.”

“This is great!” said Harry, moving to sit down. “How on earth did you arrange it?”

“I didn’t want to eat in the Great Hall tonight,” explained Draco with obvious pride in what he had pulled off, “so I went down to the kitchen to ask the house-elves for some sandwiches or something to bring up here, and I ended up with this.” Draco waved his hand over the table and grinned at Harry. “Quite a funny story actually,” he added as he sat down in his own chair.

Grinning back, Harry said, “But Draco, there’s something missing. You know – the food? Did I mention I was starving?”

With a short laugh and an arch look, Draco raised his wand again and said clearly, “Let the feast begin.” Instantly, bowls of food, just the same as down in the Great Hall, appeared on the table.

Harry set to work immediately filling his plate. “So how was it a funny story?” he asked, dishing up a large piece of roast chicken.

Draco snagged a particularly plump biscuit before Harry could take it, and reached for the butter dish. “I was trying to decide what kind of sandwiches to ask for, and I must have said something like ‘I’m not sure what Harry would want,’ but when I mentioned your name, this one elf got rather meddlesome.” Frowning slightly, Draco spread butter on the biscuit with his knife, trying to remember the details. “He was an odd sort – had on these weird mismatched socks. He wanted to know ‘Harry who?’ and ‘What would Master Malfoy be doing with Harry Potter?’”

Draco paused to take a bite out of the warm bread. “I told him that I wanted to give you dinner, but he wasn’t having that. I finally convinced him that we were friends by telling him that Dumbledore knew about it, knew you were with me, and after that he was falling all over himself to help me.” Draco dished up the rest of the chicken. “Doggy – I think that was what one of the other elves called him.”

“Dobby,” corrected Harry, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever,” said Draco, with a grin. “Anyway, he came up here with me this afternoon while you were in Hogsmeade and spelled this table like they do in the Great Hall. We can eat all our meals up here tomorrow too. He even cleaned up some ink I . . . spilled.” He gave Harry a sly, pointed look. “He was amazingly helpful, Harry – and not for me. It was because this was for you. What did you do to make him so anxious to do stuff for you?”

“It’s a long story,” said Harry, eying Draco speculatively. Was it possible Draco didn’t recognize Dobby, or know what had happened to his father’s house-elf in second year? Or even more plausible, had his father had been so embarrassed by the incident that he’d kept it quiet? It had been five years ago, and it would have been just like twelve year old Draco, Harry thought, not to have paid much attention to house-elves as individuals.

“It was something that happened second year,” said Harry, wondering how to tell it, then realizing he didn’t particularly want to talk about it, not now anyway, not while they were having dinner and Draco was in such a good mood. Bringing up Lucius Malfoy would ruin both their appetites. “But it’s really not very good dinner conversation,” he added, hoping Draco would lose interest.

Draco shrugged slightly, then looked up with an impish glint in his eyes. “Then tell me about the jewelry shop you went to this morning,” he teased. “I’m quite curious about that.”

“Mmm,” said Harry, coloring slightly. He stalled giving an answer by taking another bite of chicken. “It’s small, but very nice,” he said finally. “I’d never noticed it before.” He grinned then, realizing how easily he could turn the tables, to tease Draco instead. “They had _lots_ of pretty things.”

“Such as. . . ?” prompted Draco after a moment, when Harry didn’t elaborate.

“Um,” said Harry in an offhand way, “colored gemstones . . . rings . . . necklaces, the usual stuff.” He pretended not to notice the surprised smile that Draco was trying to hide at the mention of the jewelry. “Oh . . . they had really nice crystal balls too,” he added, as if those were the most interesting things he had seen.

Draco pushed a few peas around on his plate with his fork. “So . . . did you buy anything there?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. He wanted to laugh. Draco was clearly dying to know what Harry had bought him and was not being very subtle about it. “I bought one thing.”

“Aha,” said Draco. “And this one thing . . . ?” He mashed the peas into a ridged green square, then looked up at Harry. “Is it for me?”

Harry did laugh at that. “Well, I don’t actually have it yet.”

Draco grinned. “It _is_ for me, then. You said you were having mine delivered.”

“I also told you it wasn’t underwear and that was all I was going to say about it.”

Draco looked thoughtful and ate a few bites of his dinner before he spoke again. “I don’t think you would have gotten me a crystal ball, so that leaves the gemstones, rings and necklaces. Just one small hint, Harry? Is it something for me to wear?”

Greatly amused, Harry shook his head at Draco’s persistence, then gave in. “It’s something for you to wear,” he said, coloring a little, at what that revealed. “I hope you’ll like it.”

“I will,” said Draco softly.

Harry blushed more and took hold of his glass of pumpkin juice, but didn’t pick it up. His stomach felt all fluttery. Draco was gazing at him in that way he had that turned Harry to jelly, his eyes shining in the candlelight, gray with fiery depths that made Harry shiver a little. He looked down at his plate to cover his tongue-tied reaction, but Draco reached across the table and touched his wrist. He looked back up.

“It’s my move next in the game,” said Draco, his manner turned serious. “There’s something I want to tell you.” He took his hand away, his fingers withdrawing with a light caress. “Something important.”

“Okay,” said Harry, his voice just above a whisper, wondering what it could be.

They ate the rest of their dinner in companionable silence. Draco finished first and laid his napkin on the table. He watched while Harry finished up his last few bites of mashed potato. It was an amazing and novel thing, he thought, to sit at the same table and eat dinner with Harry – this had been so much better than having dinner at separate house tables in the Great Hall. Draco congratulated himself again for the inspired idea.

Harry looked up and set his fork down. He smiled, amused at Draco’s smug expression. “This was a great idea,” he said as they stood up. “It was perfect.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Draco easily. They each blew out a candle, and Draco said the spell to make the dishes disappear. After the table was cleared, Draco walked to his desk and came back with the chessboard. He set it on the table, then made the moves they had made that afternoon in the Three Broomsticks – moving his white Rook to D1 and Harry’s black Rook to E4. “Right?” he asked, looking back at Harry.

Harry nodded. “Right.” He noted with a little surprise that Draco now seemed slightly nervous. It made him wonder even more what the something important could be.

Draco took a deep breath then moved his Bishop three squares diagonally. “Bishop to D3,” he said quietly. “Come sit with me in the window, Harry. We can talk there.” He led the way to the window and opened it wide; Harry followed, full of curiosity. Cold air wafted into the room, and the brisk, clean smell of snow. Then Draco turned with his back to the window, hands up behind him on the window ledge and jumped up to sit on the ledge. He turned around to face out the window and let his feet hang outside over the edge to make room for Harry.

Harry imitated Draco, and boosted himself up onto the window ledge. He turned around, also letting his feet hang outside, and smiled at the unexpectedly lovely view. It took a moment for recognition to hit, since snow was falling, covering all the grounds with a layer of uniform white, but then he realized what he was looking at and inhaled a sharp breath. He turned to Draco, stunned. “That’s the Quidditch pitch!” he almost shouted. “You can see _everything_ from here!”

Draco smiled at him, a bit of a smirk in it. “I can,” he agreed. “Don’t you think it’s a wonderful view?”

“Draco!” Harry was completely exasperated. “It’s not fair, that’s what it is! You can watch the other teams practice!” He studied Draco with a frown. “Have you been? Watching us practice?”

“I’ve watched _you_ ,” he said. “I don’t care about the others.”

Harry was touched by that statement, but still hurt that all his carefully planned strategies had been exposed. “Were you watching yesterday?” he asked finally.

Draco grinned. “Yes. And I was impressed. Those moves you were practicing are going to be quite a surprise to the other teams.”

Harry snorted. “Except for Slytherin, you mean.”

“No,” said Draco, quietly. “I mean all of them. The Slytherins aren’t going to hear about it from me.”

“That’s crazy,” said Harry, trying to understand this puzzling statement. “Why wouldn’t you tell them? But even if you don’t tell, during the game, _you’ll_ still know, and it won’t be the same.”

“But I won’t be in the game.”

There was a heartbeat of silence before Harry could reply. “What?”

“I won’t be playing. I’m quitting the team. So it really doesn’t matter what I saw.”

“Quitting? But . . . why?” asked Harry, astonished and bewildered. “Why now?”

“The truth is,” said Draco slowly, “that I don’t want to be in this stupid rivalry with you anymore. I can’t do it now. I want to go flying _with_ you, not against you in some contrived competition.”

“So you just quit? Because of me – us?” Harry stared at him, feeling suddenly bereft. “What if I don’t want you to quit?” He paused, uncertain how to explain the sense of loss he felt. Hadn’t he always been annoyed with having to play against Draco? “It was fun, playing against you,” he said finally. “You made it exciting.”

Draco gave a short laugh. “Oh sure,” he said, “it was fun for you. Because you always won.”

“And everyone will think that’s why you quit!” protested Harry. “Besides, how can you let your house down like that?”

“What anyone else thinks is totally unimportant,” said Draco flatly. “As for my house, I’m sick of what passes for Slytherin here. Salazar Slytherin was proud, ambitious and smart. If he were alive, he would disown this lot of bleating sheep in a heartbeat.”

“Oh,” said Harry, this entire, perplexing conversation catching him completely off guard. He wasn’t sure what to say. He looked out at the Quidditch pitch, the stands covered now in staggered tiers of snow. “If you hate being in Slytherin so much,” he said at last, “I guess you could ask Dumbledore to have the hat resort you.”

Draco snorted. “Put that hat on a second time?” He gave a short laugh. “No one’s ever done that.”

“Er,” said Harry, suddenly realizing he had opened up a topic he might not have intended to, and blushed.

“What?” said Draco, instantly alert. “Did _you_?”

Harry sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “Once in second year when I was in Dumbledore’s office alone, I did.”

Draco stared at him, his attention totally captured by this startling confession. “Why on earth would _you_ do that?” he asked, rather incredulously.

“I . . . er . . .” Harry rubbed one hand through his hair. “I wanted to ask it something.”

“And . . .?” said Draco.

Harry took a deep breath. God, Draco was good at getting private stuff out of him. “I wanted to ask it about . . . well, at the sorting ceremony, at first it wanted to put me in Slytherin. It was only because I kept saying _‘Not Slytherin’_ over and over in my mind that it put me in Gryffindor. I wanted to ask it if that was a mistake.”

For a moment, Draco just looked at Harry, rendered completely speechless. “You’re making that up,” he said finally.

“I am not!”

“You. In Slytherin.” He eyed Harry with avid interest. “And what did it say the second time? That it was a mistake?”

Harry sighed. “No, it said the same thing. That I would have done well in Slytherin.”

Draco was quiet for a few moments, thinking, his intrigued gaze still fixed sharply on Harry. “That would have changed everything, you know.”

“I know,” said Harry, seeing it from a new perspective suddenly. “But I didn’t want to be in Slytherin, and Dumbledore said it was my choice that mattered the most – that I had chosen right, for me.” He touched Draco’s hand gently. “That’s why I think you could change if you wanted to.”

“No,” said Draco, firmly. “I may not respect my housemates much, but the hat didn’t make a mistake when it put _me_ in Slytherin. There’s no doubt of that.”

Suddenly the air was full of silent, flapping white wings. Instinctively, Harry held up his arm and felt the familiar grip and weight settle there. He lowered his arm and looked at Hedwig, and she looked back, reproach for a week’s neglect in her eyes. Harry gently scratched the feathers under her chin in apology. “Hedwig,” he said, “this is Draco.” The owl turned to Draco and studied him warily.

Draco nodded at the introduction, then grinned at the owl’s ruffled demeanor. “Oh, great,” he said, amused. “I think she’s jealous.” He held out his arm, and after a moment, Hedwig stepped from Harry’s arm to Draco’s. Draco stroked her with the back of one curled finger. “She’s lovely, Harry. She looks just like the snow.” He paused, then went on in a sadder, somewhat bitter tone. “My father never allowed me to have an owl of my own. He has so many . . . the family owls, you know . . . they’re all the same, so he said it was ridiculous to have another for me.”

Harry was totally surprised by this, having believed that the impressive eagle owl he had seen delivering letters to Draco at countless breakfasts was Draco’s own, not many identical Malfoy family owls. It had never occurred to him that Draco, vastly wealthy and seemingly spoiled, wouldn’t even have an owl of his own. Before he could say anything though, Hedwig hopped back to him and held out her leg. A small note was attached that Harry hadn’t noticed at first. He took it, unrolled the parchment and read the following:

  


> _Harry,_
> 
> _Where the bloody hell are you? You didn’t come back for dinner and I’m  
>  worried. Please answer so I know you’re okay._
> 
> _Ron_

  


Harry shook his head, half irritated and half amused, balled up the little note and let it drop out of Draco’s window into the snowdrift below.

“You don’t have to go, do you?” asked Draco, a look of stark disappointment beginning to appear on his face.

“No,” said Harry, reassuringly. “It was nothing important.” He lifted his arm so that Hedwig could take off back to the Owlry. “I promised I’d stay, remember. Tonight and tomorrow.”

Draco sighed and leaned into Harry, both arms going around him. “Of course, I remember,” he said.

They lapsed into silence for a while, caught up in just being together and watching the snow fall. It was snowing steadily now. Large, heavy snowflakes sifted lazily down out of the dark night sky, the familiar castle landmarks indistinguishable beneath a deep and pristine mantle of white. Light from the castle windows fell across the snow-covered grounds in patches and broad stripes of pale gold, invading the glittering blue-violet shadows. Everything was still except for the faint hushed pattering of the snowflakes settling. Harry was comfortable and warm because Draco’s arms were around him.

Draco turned his face to Harry. “There’s something I want to tell you,” he said softly. “It’s something I’ve known for a while . . . maybe ever since what happened to you at the Tri-Wizard Tournament . . . definitely since this summer. But after what Weasley said this afternoon . . .” He paused, watching Harry’s absorbed expression. “When I’m gone, I don’t want you to have any doubts because I didn’t say this . . .” He hesitated again, waiting to be sure Harry was listening.

Harry turned to Draco then, his attention leaping away from the peaceful charm of the gently drifting snowflakes, awareness flaring with a sudden heart skip that this was something momentous. His eyes met gray eyes full of silver fire and golden light and melting snow. “Didn’t say what?” asked Harry, his breath catching.

Draco met Harry’s eyes for a long moment, then freed one hand and smoothed an unruly lock of hair down behind Harry’s ear. “That I love you,” he said.

The warmth in Draco's voice was like a physical touch, a caress that ghosted over Harry's skin and ran down his spine; the softly spoken words so huge they echoed off the vast snow-filled sky and resounded in the depths of Harry’s pounding heart.

_Oh._

Harry forgot for a second to breathe. It seemed at that moment that he had always been waiting for just this person to say just those words. “Draco,” he whispered, “I – ”

“Don’t say it back,” said Draco, gently pressing two fingers against Harry’s lips. “Not now, not so soon. I don’t want to hear it like that from you, just because I said it first.”

Harry took Draco’s hand in his and kissed the fingertips that had silenced him, then pulled them away and leaned close, his mouth only inches from Draco’s. “Hear this, then,” he said, and kissed Draco with all the trembling affection he felt. The words Draco had said still echoed over and over through Harry’s mind and a shiver thrill went through him at the revelation they contained.

 _He’s known this for a while . . ._ Harry pressed Draco back against the window frame, the kiss deepening, but gentling into something melted and dizzying and new. It was like falling, tumbling head over heels through space and feeling safe at the same time. _He’s loved me since this summer! And I didn’t even know._

Harry felt the inside corners of his eyes prickle with emotion, felt Draco’s hand slip away from his shoulder to hold onto the window ledge, then memory twisted on a word and his heart caught. The remembrance of another night returned vividly to his mind, of Draco sitting in front of him in the corridor, saying sadly, _“A lot of things happened to me over the summer . . .”_

_What things happened?_

Harry pulled out of the kiss to face Draco with concern just as an icy gust of wind swept snowfrost against their faces and ruffled Draco’s hair into his eyes. Harry lifted one hand and brushed the pale strands back, searching Draco’s eyes, finding the warmth in them undaunted by the chill air.

“I thought we were about to fall,” said Draco, his voice low and a bit breathless as he finally let go of the window ledge to hold on to Harry instead.

“We are,” said Harry softly. He leaned forward and kissed Draco lightly. “Come in,” he said, meeting Draco’s gaze again, wondering what hurt lay untold, hidden in Draco’s words. “It’s my turn in the game. There’s something I want to know.”

Turning around, Harry slipped down from the window, and had to close his eyes for a second in the sudden lamplight of the room, so bright after the snow-feathered darkness of the night outside. Draco jumped down a moment later, then followed Harry to the table by the fire. Their arms went around each other’s waists, and they leaned together as Harry considered his next move. He studied his pieces on the chessboard carefully, checking that he hadn’t overlooked anything, and going over the position of each of Draco’s pieces a second time before turning to Draco, his smile just ever so slightly smug.

One of Draco’s pale eyebrows went up. “Go on then,” he said, a hint of indulgent amusement in his eyes.

“Queen to A5.” Harry moved his Queen diagonally to the edge of the board. “Check,” he said in quiet triumph.

But Draco, his answering grin cavalier and a little mischievous, was completely unimpressed. “It’s about time you saw that,” he teased.

“I saw it,” said Harry, with a short laugh, “ages ago.” He moved out of their half-embrace, caught hold of a slender wrist, then stepped back and sat down in Draco’s chair, tugging Draco down with him, into his lap. “I just had other moves to make first,” he added, his arms slipping around Draco’s waist to pull him close. “You know – strategy.”

“Ah, strategy,” said Draco, sliding one arm around Harry’s neck. He draped his legs over the arm of the chair toward the fire and kicked off his shoes. “Is _that_ what you call what you’ve been doing?” he asked, still teasing, but in a softer tone now, as he gently pulled off Harry’s glasses and set them on the table. He looked into Harry’s eyes for a long hushed moment, then dropped his gaze, and started to work on unbuttoning Harry’s shirt, from the collar down.

Harry didn’t answer right away, his attention captured for a heartbeat or two by the firelight flickering over Draco’s face, by the way the pale eyebrows furrowed slightly as Draco concentrated on a particularly stubborn button. “It must have been fairly good strategy . . .” he replied finally, his voice gone somewhat husky in the wake of the undercurrent of emotion that washed through him at Draco’s closeness, his touch, “. . . since I’ve got you in check.”

“That’s true,” conceded Draco, getting the button undone at last. “Or maybe . . .” he said quietly, looking up, his eyes locked on Harry’s, “. . . maybe, I’ve got _you_ just where I want you.”

Harry felt Draco’s hand slide inside his shirt to lie like a whispered endearment over his collarbone. The room seemed suddenly very warm, and Harry felt the color rise in his face. “And what will you do with me,” he asked, a daring question and sudden hope flaring in his eyes, “now that you’ve got me here?”

Draco smiled. “You’ll have to wait to find that out. It’s not my turn yet.” Draco paused then, a question of his own in his eyes. “You haven’t finished your move. You said there was something you wanted to know.”

The words were said lightly enough, but Harry heard the hidden tremor in the voice that lay beneath them. He gazed at Draco, and knew that he would always remember this moment, this sense of comfort and belonging he felt, the glow of firelight on a fair cheekbone just so, the press of a hand laying claim to his heart, the solemn, complex, and expectant expression in the gray eyes that faced him, waiting for the dare. Harry tightened his arms around Draco’s waist as if unconsciously sensing the ephemeral beauty of this present moment and wanting to hold on, and yet even as he watched it intently, it faded into past.

“Draco,” he said softly, seriously, the lighthearted banter of a minute ago forgotten. “What happened to you – while you were home this summer? You’ve mentioned it twice now.”

Draco’s expression changed in an instant, as if a door had slammed shut inside him. His eyes shuttered closed and he laid his head back against the chair. The hand inside Harry’s shirt withdrew, falling limply in his lap. He was silent for a long time.

Harry felt a momentary regret that he had asked – he hadn’t meant to upset Draco with the question. But he cared deeply to know what had happened, so he let the question hang in the air between them, waiting and hoping Draco would be willing to tell him. He placed his hand over Draco’s and after a few seconds, Draco turned his own hand over to hold it.

Finally Draco spoke, his voice very low, a hoarse whisper full of anger, and his fingers tightened over Harry’s. “My father gave me an ultimatum,” he said. “Something terrible. Something I have to do to prove my loyalty to him before the end of the school year . . . or else . . .” Draco raised his head and opened his eyes to meet Harry’s very troubled gaze. “Or else he will turn me over, as a traitor, to the Dark Lord.”

And despite his knowledge of Lucius Malfoy’s villainy, Harry was shocked. “How could he do _that_ . . . to _you_? Draco, you’re his only child!”

“I’m a tool, like everyone else,” said Draco bitterly, “to be used to further his plans and need for power. This summer, I realized that. If I don’t fall in line with what he wants, I’m nothing to him. All my life, all the things he told me, he was just trying to make me into something he could use.”

Snape’s words suddenly surfaced in Harry’s memory. _“Lucius Malfoy destroys everything that he touches. He would not think twice about destroying his own son if Draco doesn’t live up to his expectations.”_ Words he had heard, but scarcely believed . . . until now. “Draco, you can’t go home again,” he said desperately. “There has to be something we can think of to keep you here.”

Draco sighed, his eyes closed again. “We’ve talked about that already. I have to go.” He leaned forward to rest his face against the side of Harry’s head, his mouth close to Harry’s ear. “Please don’t make it any harder for me than it already is,” he said, his voice low, strained.

“I can’t help it,” protested Harry. “It’s not safe for you there.” He smoothed the fine hair down Draco’s neck with one hand. “I don’t want you to leave,” he whispered. “I want you to stay here with me.”

Draco groaned softly. “I don’t want to leave you, either.”

“Then let’s go to Dumbledore – ”

“No,” said Draco, cutting Harry off in mid-sentence. “Just for tonight and tomorrow,” he said, pulling away to look into Harry’s eyes, “I want to forget about my father, about what might happen. I just want to be with you as if none of that existed.” He tilted his head and leaned in to kiss Harry softly. “Just us for one day, nothing else.” He paused. “Please?” he whispered.

Harry gazed into those anguished gray eyes and found he could not deny him this. Even knowing it was unwise, he relented, and bent his head to kiss Draco in answer. It was so close to his own wish, so easy to get lost in the rush of Draco’s returned kisses that sent coherent thought from his mind. Surely after tomorrow there would still be time to think of something. Didn’t they deserve to have a day without worry? Harry tightened his arms around Draco, let sensation swallow up his dissent, and everything dissolved around him into awareness of only Draco’s hands, his mouth, and that the world could be, for once, even if only for a moment, full of rightness, this exquisite, thrilling touch, and peace.

Unfortunately, this peace lasted only a few minutes. Harry, surrendering to kisses that left him lightheaded and breathless, had still managed to pull Draco’s shirttail loose and was just beginning to explore the warm bare skin underneath that shirt, when they were interrupted by a soft knock at the door.

Draco pulled slowly out of a long kiss and swore under his breath. It was probably Pansy, he thought. Maybe if they ignored it . . . But then the knock came again, more insistent. “Who is it?” called Draco, annoyed.

“Draco?” said a female voice. “It’s Hermione. Is Harry there?” She paused for a second, then said, “Please let me in. I need to talk to him.”

Draco raised one eyebrow at Harry. “Come in, then.”

Hermione slipped in the door, closed it and then looked up to find Draco sitting in Harry’s lap, both rather disheveled. She blushed, recognizing at once what she had interrupted. Harry, in particular, looked different, and then she realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “God,” she teased, her tone implying vast female superiority in such matters, “is that all you boys think about?”

“Only every other minute,” said Draco, giving Harry a rather steamy grin that was mostly, but not entirely, put on. Harry laughed at that and also because he knew Hermione was probably including Ron in that statement. Then Draco’s grin changed to that mesmerizing real smile, and Harry was caught up by it, knowing he was grinning foolishly back, but not able to help it.

The way they were looking at each other made Hermione pause, not able to speak for a moment. It was amazing – so intense, and yet conveying such a shared sense of ease and happiness with each other. She wondered if she would ever get over the surprise she felt to see these boys, both of whom she had always known to be tense and unhappy, looking at each other like this. “I’m sorry for bothering you two,” she said at last, apologetically, “but Ron wasn’t going to give me any peace until I came up here. He’s having a fit because Harry missed dinner and didn’t answer his owl.”

“I ate in here,” said Harry, still grinning at Draco. “Draco planned it as a surprise. He got the table spelled like in the Great Hall. It was very nice,” he added softly, “with candles and everything.” He finally broke away from gazing at Draco to look at her. “I didn’t answer that owl,” he said firmly, but not angrily, “because Ron does not need to know where I am every minute.” He looked back at Draco. “Since we can eat our meals in here, I don’t plan to be back tomorrow at all. And I don’t want to be pestered with any more owls.”

Looking at the table in question, Hermione noticed the chessboard with the game in progress. “Haven’t you finished that game yet?” she asked.

Harry gave Draco a meaningful look and said, “I’m hoping we can finish it tonight. We’re playing now. He’s in check.”

“Oh,” laughed Hermione. “Right. I can see _that_ – ” She turned to Draco. “Just don’t forget you have prefect rounds tomorrow night.”

Draco made a face. “Bloody hell,” he said. “I _had_ forgotten.”

Harry faced Hermione for a moment. “Tell Ron he can stop worrying about me,” he said seriously. “I’m fine.” He looked back at Draco and felt his face go warm. “A lot more than fine, actually,” he added, then grinned conspiratorially. “Tell him I said that the kissing is still spectacular.”

Hermione smiled a small mischievous smile. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s going to hear about this.” She turned to go, then at the door turned back. “I’m going to tell him exactly what I saw . . . in detail – ”

“Wait – ” said Draco, his gaze riveted on Harry. “I have a message for him, too,” he said, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. His face had a captivated, subdued expression Hermione had never seen. “Tell him this from me.” He tilted his head slightly and leaned in to kiss Harry, his eyes falling closed with a rapt, intense tension between his brows. One hand came up to lie along the side of Harry’s face.

For a few seconds, Hermione was rooted to the spot. As she watched, spellbound, Draco's hand slid behind Harry's head and he pulled Harry closer, tilting his face more to deepen the kiss. Harry's mouth opened under Draco's and his hands fumbled for a moment with the hem of Draco's shirt before slipping up under it, giving Hermione a glimpse of pale skin at Draco’s waist as the shirt rode up over Harry’s wrists. Then Draco’s fingers were trailing down Harry’s neck, into the unbuttoned front of Harry’s shirt, and Hermione could almost feel the warm delicacy of that caress herself. She turned away with a small shiver, feeling heat flush to the tips of her ears as she reached for the door handle. "I'll tell him," she whispered.

It was several long minutes before Draco broke off the kiss. He glanced toward the door, noting with satisfaction that he and Harry were alone again. “My opinion of that girl is rising steadily,” he said turning back to Harry. He gave a short, devilish, gratified chuckle. “I quite like the idea of Weasley married to someone who will purposely and ruthlessly torment him.”

Harry laughed quietly. His hands were under Draco’s shirt and he quite liked _that_ , the satiny, warm skin under his hands something he wanted a lot more of. “And I’m beginning to think you like kissing me in front of other people,” he countered.

Draco snorted, amused. “I figured if you were going to make claims about spectacular kisses, she might want some evidence to back that up. But mostly,” he added softly, “other people have nothing to do with it.” He gave Harry that rare, always unexpected, slightly shy look that Harry found so endearing. “I just like kissing you.”

Harry pulled Draco closer. “Mmm,” he said, his heart beating faster. “I don’t remember saying you should stop.”

* * * * * 

Hermione let herself out the door, then leaned back on the closed door to regain her composure. It was a minute or so before she felt her flushed face might be back to normal. But just as she turned to go down the stairs, a bemused smile on her face, she heard footsteps coming up. She paused and waited, her back to Draco’s door, to see who it was.

After a couple of seconds, Pansy rounded the corner of the spiral stairwell. She stopped dead when she caught sight of Hermione, then frowned. “What are _you_ doing here?” she demanded.

“Head Girl business,” said Hermione calmly, thinking fast. “Draco has prefect rounds tomorrow – I came to remind him.”

Pansy came to the top of the stairs and sniffed scornfully. “Well, I’m quite sure he didn’t _need_ to be reminded, so if you’re all finished, I have something _personal_ to discuss with him.”

Hermione stayed where she was, blocking Draco’s door. “I don’t think he’s going to want to be disturbed right now,” she said coolly. “He’s rather . . . busy at the moment.”

“That’s too bad. If you can go in there, _I_ certainly can. _This_ is important,” insisted Pansy in a haughty tone. “He has taken me to the Yule Ball every year, and I need to find out about going this year.”

“Oh,” said Hermione, hiding a grin. “He hasn’t asked you yet, then?”

Pansy narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. “He would have, but we were . . . interrupted last night when I tried to speak to him about it.” She gave a quick furtive glance over her shoulder, back down the stairwell, as if afraid that something was going to creep up the stairs behind her. Then with a slight shudder, she turned back to Hermione, and her chin went up defiantly. “So you might as well go on about your Head Girl business. _My_ business with Draco doesn’t concern you.”

“That may be true,” conceded Hermione evenly. “But,” she continued, remembering what Harry had said at dinner two nights ago, about taking both his unknown “girl” friend and the sixth year Slytherin, Natalia, to the ball, “I’m going to hazard a guess and say I’m pretty sure that he’s made other plans this year.”

Pansy scowled at her. “What would _you_ know about his plans?”

“Only that I was just in there,” replied Hermione. “He has company. And they weren’t in there studying, if you take my meaning.”

“What are you talking about?” started Pansy, glaring, then her eyes went round with shock and understanding as Hermione’s last words sunk in. She just stared at Hermione for a moment, speechless. Her lower lip trembled slightly. “Draco never . . .” she whispered finally. “He can’t be . . .”

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione softly, taking sudden pity on the other girl. “I’m just telling you what I saw. I don’t think you want to go in there right now.”

“Oh,” said Pansy, as if all the stuffing had been knocked out of her. Her hand went up to cover her mouth. “Oh.” Then she turned and fled down the stairs.

Hermione watched her go with a feeling of misgiving. This was a complication neither of the boys had anticipated, she was sure. She pulled out her wand and faced Draco’s door, quietly spoke the words of a do-not-disturb spell and touched her wand to the wood. _At least they’ll have one night of peace_ , she thought as she started down the stairs to find Ron.

* * * * * 

Harry leaned his head back against the chair, breathing hard, thinking dazedly that he had never been so thoroughly kissed in his life. He had no idea what time it was – minutes or hours could have passed. But he was more or less sure that every square inch of his face and throat had been attended to by Draco’s soft mouth. Although, he had to admit, he’d done a very good job of returning the favor. Draco’s quickened breathing was loud in his ear as Draco’s lips brushed a neglected spot there.

“P-K,” whispered Harry, as another kiss graced his ear lobe.

“Hmm?”

Harry’s hands were inside Draco’s shirt and he moved them farther up Draco’s back, his exploring fingers spanning sharp compelling curves of spine and shoulder blade. A wave of shivery longing washed through him, as Draco kissed him again. “Draco,” he whispered. “It’s your turn, you know.”

“I know,” said a low murmur.

Harry shifted slightly and let one hand slide outward, over Draco’s shoulder blade and then down further, finding ribs with his searching fingertips. “You’re in check . . .” he said, gently insisting, “and if we finish the game, we can – ”

“Shhh,” said a soft breath in his ear, followed by another kiss.

Harry laughed quietly, then trailed teasing fingers down Draco’s bare ribs. “I want you to move,” he said. “Now.”

Draco caught his breath as Harry started tickling him. He tried to shift away, but the tickling became insistent. “Okay, okay! I’ll move,” he said, sitting up slowly, looking rather tousled and sulky and velvet-eyed. “Don’t do that. It’s hard enough to think as it is.”

“I don’t want you to think,” said Harry, gazing into soft gray eyes. He pulled his hand out from under Draco’s shirt and tucked a wayward strand of hair back behind Draco’s ear. “I want you to be distracted and play badly, so I can win and the game can be over.”

“Ah,” said Draco, with a bit of a grin. “More strategy?”

Harry chuckled at that. “Take your turn,” he insisted, slipping his hand back under Draco’s shirt, fingers splayed, cupping the curve of waist and ribs, a mild threat of more tickling implied.

Draco gave in with a look that insinuated Harry was using vastly unfair tactics, then turned to look at the chessboard. He sat up a little straighter, studying Harry’s possible future moves. Harry was a fairly good player, but, Draco smirked to himself, not as good as he was. Draco was indeed in check, just as he’d planned, and as he had joked earlier, he had skillfully drawn Harry’s play and maneuvered him right into the position where he wanted him to be. He reached for his King, his hand pausing for a second before moving the piece. “King to E2,” he said, turning back to Harry. “Do you remember what you said you would do, if I talked to Weasley?”

Harry smiled. “You said something about being petted and made over. I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“Well, yes. But now I’m thinking of something specific I want you to do.”

“Oh?”

“Come to bed and I’ll tell you.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat and he looked at Draco, hopefully. “Have you . . . changed your mind then – about us waiting until the game is over?”

“No.”

Draco started to get up, but Harry pulled him back down. “Why not? I . . .” Harry suddenly let his need to know override his willingness to give Draco space on this issue. He reached out over Draco and moved his remaining black Bishop. “Bishop to A6,” he said with determination. “Draco . . . I need you to talk to me . . . I’m not asking you to change your decision, I just want to know why you changed your mind last night.”

“You can’t do that,” protested Draco, waving his hand at the chessboard. “It’s not your turn yet.”

“I don’t care – we’ll come back to your turn,” said Harry firmly. “I want to know this first.”

Draco was silent for several minutes, thinking. “I don’t want to feel like I’m pushing you into something,” he said at last. “What if you _are_ on the rebound – like Weasley said? You have to admit this has happened very fast.”

“I’m _not_ on the rebound – not the way Ron meant.” Harry took a deep breath, then continued in a softer voice. “And I don’t want to make love to you as part of this game we’re playing – not as a dare, or because one of us wins.”

There was another drawn out moment of silence while Draco regarded Harry solemnly. “I didn’t mean to make it part of the game,” he said. “I don’t want it to be that way either.” He looked down. “I wanted to give us a little more time, that’s all. I want you to be sure.”

“The chess game is nearly over, Draco. I don’t know how I can be more sure in a day or two than I am right now – and I thought you felt the same.” Harry paused. “Look, I don’t mind waiting. I just need to understand. What did I say that made you change your mind about wanting to be with me?”

“God, Harry,” said Draco, looking up as if mildly startled. “I haven’t changed my mind. But the things you said about that girl made me realize I don’t want us to rush into this. You said you wanted to get married, have children – what about that? Have you thought seriously about what you’d be giving up . . . to be with me?”

Harry was quiet for a bit. He hadn’t really thought about the marriage and children question. He’d been certain he’d wanted that with Cho – but now? “What about you?” he asked after a moment. “Don’t you want children, Draco? To carry on the Malfoy name?”

Draco’s expression hardened. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I’m not going to be responsible for bringing any more Malfoys into the world. It was a great name once, but not now.”

“You could change it – make it honorable again,” offered Harry gently.

“No,” said Draco, his voice quiet, sad. “It’s far too late for that.” He turned to look at Harry. “But you should, you know. After the war is over, everyone will expect you to get married and have lots of little Potters.”

“I don’t care what everyone expects,” said Harry flatly. “And that’s assuming I survive.”

“I think you will,” said Draco softly. He dropped his gaze, lifting one hand absently to straighten Harry’s collar. “Your parents would have wanted that too, you know. They wouldn’t have wanted you mixed up with a Malfoy, with no grandchildren . . .”

That stung. “Draco . . . what are you saying?”

“That you should think about it.” Draco let his hand rest against Harry’s chest, feeling reassured by the solidness that lay beneath his fingers, like finding a rock to cling to in deep water. “You know how I feel about you,” he continued after a moment. “But for once in my life, I’m trying not to be selfish. I know I may not get to keep you. That’s why I want to have you to myself now, while I can – I’m afraid this may be all I’ll have.”

Harry caught his breath, fear muting his voice. “Please don’t think things like that.”

Draco paused, sighed. “Come to bed, Harry. Let’s not think about _any_ of this. I’m only asking for one day.”

* * * * * 

Ron was practically hopping from one foot to the other when Hermione found him waiting for her at the bottom of the main stairs. She rolled her eyes at him, not sure if she was more touched by his frantic expression or annoyed with his stubbornness.

“Did you find Harry? Was he okay?”

“He was perfectly fine,” she announced firmly. “He said to tell you to stop worrying about him. And no more owls.”

“Hermione,” said Ron rather defensively, “Malfoy said he had some secret surprise planned and then they never came back down to dinner, even though Harry said how hungry he was. I think I was right to be suspicious.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips and looked up at Ron, exasperation clearly written on her face. “That secret and diabolical plan Draco had,” she said pointedly, “was to give Harry a romantic dinner up in his room. You could take notes from him, Ron. Really.”

“That was _it_!” sputtered Ron. “They ate dinner in Malfoy’s room?”

“Yes, with candles and everything. And you should have seen them when I got there. Harry with his shirt half-unbuttoned, Draco with his shirttail out and sitting in Harry’s lap, both of them all rumpled because I interrupted them making out in the chair in front of the fire.”

Ron grimaced and turned sort of green.

Hermione, enjoying that reaction immensely, continued, a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Harry had a message for you,” she said, trying to keep her tone serious in spite of Ron’s amusing expression. “He said to tell you the kissing was still spectacular.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” moaned Ron. “I don’t need to hear any more.”

“Oh no, it’s not enough,” she insisted, determined that Ron face the truth. “Draco had a message for you, too.”

“I don’t think I want to know . . .”

“He said, ‘Tell Weasley this for me,’ and then right in front of me, he kissed Harry.”

Ron groaned. “I knew I didn’t want to know.”

“And he didn’t stop. In fact, they were still at it when I left. I’ve never seen _anyone_ kiss like that. It was so – ”

“Stop. Please,” he said, wincing. “I can’t take any more.”

“– sweet and intense and – ”

“Argh!”

“ – passionate.”

“You are spiteful, sometimes, Hermione. You know that? Spiteful.” He frowned at her, reluctant to admit that he’d seen an example of it himself. Instead he wanted to find some reason for it – other than the most obvious, the truth. “Maybe Malfoy’s put some kind of spell on him,” he grumbled. “Have you thought of that? Some kind of sick dark magic love spell so that Harry won’t suspect anything. Or, it could be a potion. You know he’s Snape’s pet; he’s way too good in that class.”

Hermione sighed. “Ron,” she said, trying again to be patient, “Draco is really in love with Harry. I could see it. You can’t honestly believe he would be plotting against him now.”

“I’m not sure what to believe,” said Ron stubbornly, “and I’m not going to start trusting him until I do. This is serious, Hermione. I’m not letting some kissy-stuff blind me to something that could be very dangerous. Even if Malfoy’s okay, there’s still his father. I don’t like to think about how he’ll react when he finds out his son is involved with Harry.”

“I know,” said Hermione. “And I completely agree with you on that. Lucius Malfoy could be very dangerous even if Draco’s intentions are good, and that worries me too.”

“Oh, thank God,” breathed Ron in relief. “I was starting to think I was the only one who could see that.”

“Of course not,” replied Hermione as if mildly insulted. “But it’s not just Harry I’m worried about; Draco is in danger as well. And if something happens to Draco now, you need to remember how much that will devastate Harry.”

Ron made a face and ran one hand through his hair, then reluctantly agreed. “Okay,” he said in a resigned tone, “I get the point.”

“Which is?”

“That even if I don’t care what happens to Malfoy for his own sake, I should care for Harry’s sake.”

“Right,” she said, nodding once in firm approval. Then she gave him a sly, challenging look. “And what else?”

Ron screwed up his face for a moment, thinking. “Er, that romantic dinners with candles and everything are something I should have thought of?”

“Right again.” She grinned. “Very good.”

He grinned back at her, then took hold of her sleeve and drew her closer so that he could put his arms around her. “And if I do that,” he asked, his blue eyes lighting up with sudden possibilities, “does that mean I also get to make out with you in front of the fire with _your_ shirt half-unbuttoned?”

* * * * * 

_I’m only asking for one day._

The words Draco had spoken reminded Harry of his earlier decision to give in on this and he relented. “Okay,” he said softly, “but after tomorrow . . . we need to talk.” Draco moved to get up and this time Harry let him go.

Draco made no comment in answer. He stood up and stretched, then turned to Harry and held out his hand.

Harry took Draco’s hand and let himself be pulled up out of the chair. He faced Draco for a brief moment, searching the serious gray eyes for an answer he didn’t find, before Draco squeezed his hand and let go, then turned away. He watched Draco walk across the room, then looked down at the chessboard. Draco’s move had surprised him somewhat.

“Harry?” called Draco from the bathroom door.

“I’ll be right there,” said Harry. Draco nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. Harry continued studying the position of the chessmen. He grinned slightly. While he had joked about distracting the other boy with the tickling, he hadn’t actually expected Draco to make such a bad move. Draco was playing right into the trap he’d been setting up. In three or four more moves, the game would be over. If he could just get Draco to keep playing tomorrow . . . then, tomorrow night they might . . .

He smiled at that idea, and went to collect his overnight things from his bookbag by the door, then followed Draco to the bathroom. When he got there, the shower was running and a towel was draped over the shower curtain rod. Draco’s clothes were laid in a neat pile on the floor. Harry stood in the doorway for a second, frozen in indecision. For a moment, he was tempted to slip into the shower with Draco, but something held him back. He’d never thought twice about showering with the boys in his dorm or on the Quidditch team; with so many of them sharing, sometimes there just wasn’t time to wait until a stall was free. But this was different.

Harry walked slowly to the sink and set his bookbag down. Absently, he unbuttoned the bottom section of his shirt and took it off, dropping it on the floor next to his bag. He turned back to look at the shower curtain that rippled and billowed slightly with the movement behind it, hearing the sound of the water change accordingly too.

He closed his eyes, a flush creeping over him, making his ears burn. This was very different. If he got in there with Draco . . . oh, God . . . what he’d want to do . . . Instantly his imagination pictured it, Draco wet, water streaming down his body, himself pressing Draco back against the tile, kissing him with the water pouring over them, their bodies moving together . . . Exactly what Draco was asking him not to do.

Abruptly the water turned off, jerking Harry out of his thoughts. The towel disappeared. Harry turned back to the sink, his face flaming, then he fished his toothbrush and comb out of the bag and got the toothpaste out of the cabinet. He heard the shower curtain being swept back. In another moment, Draco was standing beside him, wearing the towel around his waist, one hand coming up to rest on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry set the things he was holding down and turned to Draco, slipping one arm around his waist, pulling them together. Draco’s skin was cool and damp where they touched. Their eyes met and everything else melted away. Draco was gazing back at him with an expression of such intense longing that Harry felt suddenly that the other boy must have shared his thoughts about being in the shower together, and he felt the heat creep up into his face again.

He leaned in and kissed Draco softly, his free hand going up to lay along Draco’s jawline, thumb caressing his cheek, vaguely aware that Draco was trembling and holding on to the edge of the sink. Harry pulled out of the kiss and gazed at Draco’s face, only inches from his own. Draco’s eyes were downcast, his still damp hair falling over his forehead, a flush of color on his face – from the kiss or the shower, Harry didn’t know. Harry dropped his hand, fingertips tracing a line down Draco’s neck, then lightly following the length of Draco’s collarbone out to his shoulder. “Draco,” he whispered, “I will wait as long as you ask me to, but you have to know . . . I don’t want to wait at all.”

Draco leaned forward so that their foreheads rested together for a moment, the pressure of his hand on Harry’s shoulder tightening slightly. Then he let go, his lips brushing Harry’s cheek, and he slipped away without a word, out of Harry’s arms, out of the room, and closed the door behind him.

Harry stood alone in the bathroom, transfixed for a minute with desire, a dull ache beginning in the back of his throat. There were too many questions that Draco wasn’t answering. _If he wants this as badly as I do_ , thought Harry, _then why is he doing this?_ Harry reached absently for his toothbrush and the toothpaste. _I’ve told him I’m sure. There’s got to be something he still isn’t telling me . . ._

He finished brushing his teeth, then looked at the shower stall and decided to follow Draco’s example. He found another towel on the shelf and draped it over the curtain rod, then turned the water on. The water was still warm since Draco had been running it.

Getting undressed hurriedly, he stepped in and let the hot water pour over his shoulders and back. He thought about Draco being in here with him again and smiled wryly. Someday soon, he was sure, that would happen. He only had to be patient with whatever it was Draco believed they needed to do for a little while longer. He just wished he understood what that was.

Harry showered quickly, toweled his hair and body, then wrapped the towel around his waist and pushed the shower curtain back. Draco was standing by the sink again, this time dressed in the gray knit pants he’d worn the night before. He was just finishing brushing his teeth. Harry came over to the sink and picked up his comb.

Draco put his toothbrush away then took Harry’s comb out of his hand. “Here,” he said quietly, “let me do that.”

Harry bent his head and submitted to Draco’s ministrations gladly, closing his eyes, the sure, light touch of Draco’s hands soothing the confusion Harry felt, stirring his heart with comfort.

“Okay,” said Draco after a minute. “That’s not _too_ bad.”

Harry smiled at that and opened his eyes. Draco was smiling back at him, with an amused this-is-hopeless look in his eyes. “Thanks,” said Harry. “Whatever you did, I’m sure it’s better than I would have done.”

“No question of that,” agreed Draco, handing him back the comb and moving to the doorway. “Now hurry up. In spite of your illegal commandeering of the chess game, it’s still my turn.”

Harry glanced in the mirror after Draco left and grinned at his reflection. Draco did seem to have a magic touch for fixing his hair. He pulled a clean pair of boxers out of his bag and put them on, then took a deep breath to settle the anticipation fluttering in his stomach before walking out to face whatever Draco had in mind.

Draco was almost finished turning out the lamps when Harry came out of the bathroom. Harry set his bag next to Draco’s trunk, then got into bed and sat leaning back against the headboard, watching as the room darkened with each lamp that went out, until there was only the warm flickering glow of the fire casting long shifting shadows across the floor from the table and chairs in front of the fireplace.

Draco appeared on the other side, and they faced each other across the bed, a hushed feeling of expectation surrounding them. Then Draco pulled back the covers and slipped into bed, lying on his side facing Harry, one arm tucked up under his head.

Harry lay down too and there was only a second of hesitation before Draco moved over to curl into Harry’s side, his head on Harry’s shoulder, one hand resting over Harry’s heart. Harry put his arms around him, buried his face for a moment in the fine, still slightly damp silk of Draco’s hair and sighed with content at this simple comfort. Lying in bed, holding Draco in his arms like this, being held in return, was becoming a safe haven for Harry, a deep source of security that he’d never experienced before.

And yes, this touch too, he thought, as Draco moved his hand and Harry felt that light, exquisite caress feather over his chest and down his arm. It was hard to explain even to himself, but Draco’s touch was so uniquely Draco’s – a touch that could never be replaced, something no one else could ever give him. This touch had become something he needed, something that put him at peace and stirred him at the same time; a touch that held his heart willingly captive.

Turning his head so that his cheek was against Draco’s hair, Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, soaking in the ease and genuineness he felt in this moment, giving his heart and himself over into Draco’s slender hands with complete trust. Draco, too, seemed to be lost in this shared comfort, his wandering fingers moving languidly, drawing circles and lines of tender fire on Harry’s arm and shoulder and throat, evidently in no hurry now to take his turn in the game.

 _It would be so easy to fall asleep like this_ , Harry thought, but the memory of wanting to finish the chess game surfaced in his thoughts and he stirred finally, his arms tightening around Draco. “It’s your move,” he said softly. “What do you want me to do?”

Draco’s hand stilled, then trailed up Harry’s neck to tangle in a lock of hair behind Harry’s ear. “What you did that other night,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The way you touched me . . . with the magic. I want to feel like that again, but not fall asleep.”

 _Touch me with the magic . . ._ It was not what Harry had expected. He remembered that night so vividly – Draco lying in his arms, the words he had said then, trying to explain the rightness and completion he felt, the sense of belonging together that had begun to ease the heart-scars of loneliness inside him, and Draco’s unexpected tears that had followed. He’d been touching Draco, stroking his back to soothe him, and had used wandless healing magic, a calming spell and then a spell to bring sleep.

Draco raised up on his elbow to look down into Harry’s face, gray eyes full of hope mingled with uncertainty. “I remember . . . it felt amazing . . .” said Draco quietly. “So peaceful . . . like I was floating and there was nothing in the world to worry about, but then I fell asleep. Can you do that – the peaceful part, but not put me to sleep?”

“Yes,” said Harry, meeting the questioning gray gaze openly. “I used two spells that night – one for calming and one to put you to sleep. I won’t do the sleep one this time.”

“What should I do?”

“Lie down,” said Harry, gently pulling Draco back down into his arms. “Get comfortable. It will take me a few minutes to be ready to do it.”

Draco settled himself against Harry, with his head resting again on Harry’s shoulder, his eyes closed. He remembered those few moments when Harry had cast the spell on him that night as if it were a fragment of a dream, something beautiful and elusive, something glimpsed and cherished, but lost before it was ever held. A feeling of peace like he had never imagined could exist had woven through him, stolen deep into his heart, and he longed to feel it again. He wanted to live in it, if only for a short time, and be free from the worries that haunted his every waking moment.

If Harry could give him this . . . there were no words for how grateful he would be for such a gift, or for how much more deeply he would love Harry for giving it. Or . . . for what he would willingly give Harry in return. He sighed without a sound and waited, the tension of mixed hope and anticipation stirring his pulse.

Harry relaxed and closed his eyes, holding Draco lightly. The centering ritual would take a few minutes, but Harry had practiced it so many times it was becoming second nature to him. It had an almost dual quality – was both a turning inward to consciously connect with the source of magic inside himself while at the same time releasing and willing that magic to expand outward, letting it fill and flow out of him, giving it direction through his hands and purpose with the incantation of spells. The spell Draco was asking for was a simple one – he had performed much more complex spells with Madam Pomfrey.

Lying still, Harry first became conscious of the quiet sounds of the room, the faint murmur of the fire, the wind sighing at the window, Draco’s soft breathing. As he turned his awareness inward, he became attuned to his heartbeat, the steady rhythm of his own breathing drawing his focus further into the center of magic that pulsed just below his heart. He could feel it vibrate, a well of magic power gently thrumming within him, awakening in response to the mental touch of his awareness.

As he went deeper into that inner state, his sensitivity to subtle energies around him increased. He could feel the fragile high-strung tension in Draco through his hands, sense the faint shifting of shadow and firelight across the bed, and the separate auras of magic that surrounded both himself and Draco. Harry moved his hands up Draco’s back, then back down, the smooth skin like velvet under his sensitized fingertips, and felt Draco respond like a taut harp string to his touch. He whispered the words of the calming spell, letting the power of the spell flow out from his hands. Almost immediately he felt Draco relax, felt the tension ebbing away with each caress of his stroking fingers.

He felt Draco breathe deeply and move in his arms to be held closer, melting into him in a way that was much more than merely seeming. He felt again that deep, almost musical vibration surrounding them, like a sound too low to be heard that he had sensed before when he had held Draco like this. It was as if magic sang with a soundless hum in the air all around them. He lost himself in it for a moment, drawn by the lull of its delicate tone, a new awareness of its nature gradually forming in his mind. It seemed to tremble at the borders of their individual magical auras, stirring and dissolving the differences, weaving them together into each other.

Then with sudden insight, Harry realized that the humming vibration was not causing the joining, but was simply the sound created by his magical aura blending with Draco’s.

Now, he could clearly sense the edges of their magic running together, separation disappearing like two drops of water that touched and merged and left no trace of their original duality. The boundaries of self and other blurred until Harry no longer quite knew himself from Draco. He felt a heartbeat that echoed his own in close counterpoint; breath that synchronized and mingled, shared. Draco’s hand wandered softly down his chest and he felt the calm of the magic he was casting invading himself, as if Draco’s touch transmitted it too, and knew an immense sense of wonder that this could happen.

The inner magic he was tapping was strong tonight, stronger than he had ever felt it, and the spell flooded through him, submerging him in waves of peace, resonating between himself and Draco, responding to their combined energies. For a long, long moment, he rested in this stillness with Draco, a calm as deep as the ocean filling his senses. Harry knew it within himself, and also felt it within Draco as an echo, a double sense of self and . . . not other, but other self.

And welling up within that calm, like a tide answering to the touch and movement of Draco’s hand, was . . . love. Draco was overflowing with it, as if he too cast a spell, and Harry drank it in, let it break his heart with longing and mend it with joy, let it spill over and pour back into Draco, until there was no longer any sense of self or other – only the joining, the oneness of dissolving together into each other.

It was a sensation that knew no boundaries of time, and Harry let it wash over and through him, through Draco and back again in a seemingly endless cycle, as water mirrors the sky. The feeling gradually abated with the dispersing of the spell he had cast. Profoundly moved, Harry opened his eyes and saw a pure and perfect serenity reflected in Draco’s face. His heart melted, and he reached out to touch the other boy, his fingers resting lightly on Draco’s shoulder, then he gently let his fingers skim down Draco’s arm and his breath caught.

In the shadowed light, the trembling movement of his hand cast golden sparks of light across Draco’s skin. And where Draco’s fingers stirred in response, touching him, there were also sparks, clear as crystal, diamond bright. This was no figment of imagination or dream – he was looking right at it – heightened senses fully alert this time. Fascinated, he leaned closer so that he could see better. His fingertips left tiny gold sparkles in their wake as he moved them over Draco’s skin.

“Draco,” he whispered, making barely a sound, but Draco heard and opened his eyes.

For a moment, the eye contact was almost too intimate to bear, yet too compelling to break. The gray eyes that met Harry’s were like a window opening on endless gray skies awash with emotion. Harry shifted down a little, turning on his side so that he was directly facing Draco. “Do this,” he said softly, lifting his hand, holding it upright between them, palm toward Draco. Draco’s hand rose to mirror it, and Harry saw shimmering in the space between their hands, the glitter of sparks, gold and crystal white. “Can you see that?” he breathed, completely amazed. “Between our hands?”

“No,” whispered Draco. “What do you see?”

“Little glittery sparkles of light . . . white ones and gold.”

“Is it some kind of aura? Like you told me you could see?”

“Probably,” said Harry, “but not anything I’ve ever studied about.”

Draco’s face became wistful, staring hard between their hands as if willpower alone would make them appear to him.

“Wait, let me try something . . .” Harry closed his eyes and mentally sank back into the center of magic inside himself, visualizing it expanding out, building its intensity and strength, picturing it flowing into the energy he could feel connecting and effervescing in the space between their hands. Then he heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath and opened his eyes. The sparks were much, much brighter. “You see them now?” whispered Harry, careful not to lose his concentration.

Yes,” whispered Draco back, awed. “Like tiny stars.”

Harry turned slowly onto his back and Draco did too, careful to keep their hands aligned. They lay side by side, their hands still raised on either side, the distance between them now spanning across their chests. The sparks spread out, arcing over their bodies, a miniature galaxy stretched between their fingertips. The effect lasted only a few moments, then faded. Harry let go of the magic energy he was expending and let his raised hand drop onto his stomach.

Draco turned onto his side and raised up on one elbow to look down at Harry’s face. “What do you think it means?” he asked in a hushed voice, placing his hand over Harry’s.

Harry looked up at him. “I thought you might know . . . or have heard of something like it.”

“No,” said Draco, and he paused a moment, a faraway look in his eyes, then lay back down, settling close to Harry, his head on Harry’s pillow. Harry put one arm around him. “But it reminded me of something . . .” His fingers traced down the backs of Harry’s fingers, and up again, then stilled.

Harry imagined the shiver of white sparks that must have followed that touch across his skin and waited for Draco to go on.

“Once . . .” said Draco, very softly, “last summer, when I woke up in the dark in my room . . . after my father had . . . cast _Crucio_ on me, I climbed out my window and stood on the ledge. I thought it could all be over if I would just let myself fall.” His fingers tightened over Harry’s. “But I couldn’t let go . . . and I couldn’t go back in. After a while I climbed onto the roof instead and lay up there looking at the stars.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let go,” whispered Harry, horrified.

Draco was silent for a long moment, his fingers moving again to trace the bones of Harry’s wrist. “I imagined you with me out there.”

“Like this?” Harry hugged him closer.

“No, not like this. Not then. I just imagined you . . .” Draco closed his eyes, picturing a deep midnight sky luminous with the cold, indifferent, ice-bright sparkle of countless stars and the dark-haired boy he had wished there sitting beside him, a silence as vast as the sky overhead joining them in unspoken understanding. “. . . you were sitting close by, watching with me,” he said, remembering then how the starlight had seemed to change and kindle, shining down with an intimate, embracing warmth in the power of that partnered gaze. “I felt better after that.”

They were quiet together for a long time, though Harry raised his hand to lightly stroke Draco’s hair. Finally Draco spoke again, his voice very soft with emotion. “What happened,” he asked, “when you did the spell? I could feel you . . . like you were inside my skin.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry slowly. “I felt it too,” he said. “It was the magic . . . somehow . . . it was in both of us.” Vivid memory of that intimacy pooled between them. “I could feel what you were feeling.” Harry turned onto his side so that they were facing each other again. Their eyes met for a second, then he moved closer and kissed Draco, drawing a tremor of tenderness from both of them.

“Will it be like that if we make love?” whispered Draco after a timeless moment, his words falling like an echo of both of their thoughts.

Harry opened his eyes. Draco was looking at him with that intense longing again. A slow wave of heat washed over Harry. “It might . . .” he whispered back, an ember of hope igniting in the hush that followed his words. He kissed Draco again, his fingers drawing a glitter of gold sparks across Draco’s shoulder.

Draco pulled gently back from the kiss and sighed, a sound of yearning for something desperately desired but relinquished unrequited. “Put me to sleep, Harry. Like you did before,” he said, closing his eyes against that desire.

Harry hesitated, then lay back, drawing Draco into his arms, a lump growing in his throat for Draco’s continued avoidance of what they both so clearly wanted. Then he centered himself and spoke the words of the spell, his fingers feathering the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck, and felt the unmistakable backwash of it through the other boy within himself. Draco went heavy in his arms, falling into sleep.

Holding Draco tightly, Harry lay still, thinking. What _had_ happened when he’d done that first spell? It seemed that the magic he’d done to Draco had affected him too. Even now, he was feeling drowsy from a rebound of the sleep spell. He’d been very aware that their magical auras had joined, and that wasn’t supposed to happen.

Something else had happened too. There was something that he knew now without a shadow of a doubt, and the memory of that lifted his heart away from his concerns. Though he had believed the words when Draco had said them, he had _felt_ with absolute certainty when their magic had joined, that Draco loved him. The strength of it, as he thought back on it now, stunned him. It had permeated Harry’s spells with a power equal to Harry’s own magic. Harry turned his head so that his face was against Draco’s hair.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, though he knew that Draco was already asleep and wouldn’t hear.

But knowing how much Draco loved him made some of Draco’s behavior all the more puzzling. For example, there was the marriage and children question Draco had asked him earlier. Was Draco really concerned about that, or was that only part of the truth? He didn’t want to doubt, but he was definitely beginning to believe that there was something Draco wasn’t telling him. Harry sighed, and shifted down a little, settling himself with Draco more comfortably, admitting reluctantly to himself that he hadn’t really answered Draco’s question either.

He knew that he wanted to spend his life with someone he loved, married or not. It seemed quite clear that Draco was that someone, and if they couldn’t be married, well, that wasn’t going to stop Harry from wanting to be with him. Nor did he care how others would react to that. But the idea of children, he had to admit honestly was a wrench to give up. He’d let his imagination get carried away while he’d been with Cho, had envisioned being the father he’d never had, making the loving home he’d never remembered. That wasn’t so easy to stop wanting, and he knew that not even Draco would be able to fill up that one empty corner of his heart.

But if he had to make a choice . . . He glanced down at Draco, asleep in his arms, and smiled, then closed his own eyes and allowed the spell to lull him to sleep. He’d made his choice.

* * * * * 

Harry woke up in the morning alone. Since this had been true all his life, it was a moment or two before he realized something was wrong with that. This morning, said sleepy memory, there should have been someone in bed with him. He sat up, still not fully awake, and rubbed one hand through his hair, squinting at the slanting shaft of muted light that fell across the bed through the partly open bed curtains on his left. There was a soft murmur of words and a rustling sound from the corner of the room to his right where the wardrobe was. “Draco?” he called quietly.

There was a pause in the rustling, then footsteps, and the draperies at the end of the bed flew open. “It’s about time you woke up,” said Draco, grumpily, standing at the foot of the bed, dressed only in the gray pants he’d slept in. “I’ve waited breakfast for you, and I’m starving.”

To Harry’s somewhat blurred vision, it looked like Draco was grinning, in spite of the tone of voice, and Harry suspected he hadn’t been up as long as he had implied. Harry scooted toward the side of the bed, wondering where he had left his glasses the night before. He seemed to remember Draco pulling them off . . . then he recalled why, and that told him where. “How late _is_ it?” he asked.

“Late enough,” said Draco, coming around to the side of the bed as Harry stood up.

Now that he was closer, Harry could see that he _was_ grinning and smiled back.

Draco reached up to smooth down a lock of Harry’s unruly black hair. There was a moment of shyness as touch brought back a flood of memories of the night before.

“How do you feel?” asked Harry softly, concerned that the spell he’d done had worked properly. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Better than I ever remember,” said Draco. He leaned in and kissed Harry – one of those lingering, feather soft kisses that always made Harry’s heart turn over. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” said Harry sincerely.

“Come on,” said Draco, suddenly impatient, taking Harry’s hand, pulling him toward the table by the hearth. “Let’s eat. I have lots of plans for us today.”

“Wait,” said Harry, drawing back, marveling that Draco seemed unfazed by being shirtless and barefoot in the chilly room. “It’s cold in here – at least let me get a shirt on.”

“I’ve got the fire going,” insisted Draco, not letting Harry go, tugging him forward. “It’s warm over there. And besides,” he added, his grin changing to a bit of a smirk, “you’ll just have to take it off again after breakfast.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up.

“You have to try on dress robes, remember.”

Harry groaned inwardly and let Draco lead him across the room, realizing that the rustling sounds he had heard when he woke up had been Draco looking through the clothes in his wardrobe. But he had agreed, he reminded himself, to let Draco lend him robes for the Yule Ball, so he had to keep his promise if he wanted them to go together.

He found his glasses on the table and put them on while Draco carried the chessboard over to his desk to clear the way for the breakfast things. He still thought the room was a bit chilly for going around wearing nothing but boxers, but the fire was blazing up now and it was warmer on this side of the room, and he certainly didn’t mind that Draco was half-dressed.

Draco came back with his wand, and in a moment the table was full of breakfast – pancakes, muffins, bacon, eggs, toast, fruit, and pots of tea and hot cocoa. Harry sat down and pulled his feet up into the chair, away from the freezing flagstone floor, then picked up the large pot of hot cocoa and poured himself a cupful. The first sip burned his tongue a little, but it warmed him quite nicely going down. He reached for a muffin and sat back, regarding Draco curiously. “What are all these plans you have for today?” he asked. “Besides finding me something to wear to the Yule Ball.”

Draco gave Harry a mischievous look. He popped the last bite of a piece of bacon in his mouth and licked his fingers. “I’m not saying, yet,” he grinned. “Not until I take my next turn in the game.”

Harry grinned back at him. There was something marvelously intimate about eating breakfast with someone in your underwear and it reminded Harry of the marriage question Draco had asked the night before. If they lived together, Harry wondered, could be it like this every morning? Well, maybe a bit warmer would be nice . . . Draco seemed in a good mood and maybe the trying on of robes wouldn’t be so bad – maybe Draco had already picked something out for him.

Draco finished his breakfast quickly, then got up and went to the window. He pushed it open and gazed up at the long, sharp-toothed icicles that hung from the castle eaves above him, then out at the grounds and the cloudy sky. The snow had finally stopped in the early morning hours, and though the landscape spread out below was beautifully covered with a blanket of white, Draco regarded the pale, gray, overcast sky with a frown. It wouldn’t be as nice as a clear day, but Draco had only this one day and not even a sky full of snow was going to stop him from doing what he’d planned for the day.

Harry joined him at the window and shivered as a blast of the frigid air reached him. “Bloody hell, Draco,” he said, his tone teasing, not angry. “Isn’t it cold enough in here as it is?”

Draco turned to him and shook the hair back out of his eyes that a gust of wind caught just at that moment. He grinned. “I know what’s wrong with you,” he said. Pulling the window closed, he walked past Harry to his desk to retrieve his wand. When he came back, he stopped and stood a few feet from Harry, then pointed his wand at Harry. “This is so elementary, I didn’t realize you didn’t know it.”

“Know what?” said Harry, rather startled by the wand that was aimed right at his chest.

“Hold still,” said Draco.

“Wait!” Harry held up his hands in front of him. “What are you doing? Are you sure it’s safe?”

Draco raised one eyebrow and gave Harry a half smirk. “This is the very first spell the first-years learn in Slytherin. It’s completely harmless, but totally essential. No one could stand to live in the dungeons without it.” He lowered his wand a little, and tilted his head slightly, amused affection in his eyes. “Do you trust me?” he challenged softly.

Harry took a deep breath and relaxed. “Yes,” he said, then he screwed his eyes shut tight, waiting for whatever it was to hit him, while trying to ignore the silly feeling he had standing there like that in his boxers.

“ _Corpofoveo_ ,” said Draco.

A mild tingling sensation ran over Harry’s skin, from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes. Draco was watching him curiously. Something was different . . . then Harry’s eyes opened wide. _Oh!_ The cold was gone! He felt as if a thin layer of comfortable warmth surrounded him. He held his arms out from his sides and the warmth moved with him. “Aha,” he said, grinning at Draco, greatly impressed. “This is why you’re always so warm.”

Draco laughed. “I wish I had thought of this last night,” he said, feigning annoyance. “You had those cold feet on me again this morning. It woke me up.”

“Sorry,” said Harry, still grinning. He wiggled his now warm toes happily.

“And you’re going to need that spell, for what I have in mind later,” hinted Draco. “But first,” he added, a predatory gleam in his eye, “it’s time to try on dress robes.”

Harry sighed, his grin deflating into something like a rueful smile. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m not wearing anything that makes me look like a vicar.”

Draco gave him a scornful look. “Oh, and I suppose you thought it was better to go about looking like a giant green bean.”

“No!” laughed Harry, far too amused by the mental picture that conjured to be insulted. “But I didn’t pick those robes myself – Mrs. Weasley got them for me.” Harry laughed again. “At least what I had was better than what Ron got stuck with.”

“Ah, yes,” said Draco, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “That maroon monstrosity. What a ghastly color that was – especially with Weasley hair.”

“Well, I think he has Percy’s navy blue ones now,” said Harry, not wanting the conversation to go any further into insulting Ron.

“Better,” conceded Draco. “But you,” he added, raising one eyebrow and looking Harry up and down appreciatively, “ _this_ year, for a change, _you_ are going to look stunning.”

Harry blushed slightly. He walked over to the open wardrobe and stood next to Draco, looking in. The interior of the wardrobe appeared to go back much farther than was physically possible, revealing an extensive array of ties, shirts, sweaters, robes, and trousers. “God, Draco,” exclaimed Harry, flabbergasted, “how much stuff do you have in there?”

“A lot,” said Draco quietly. He pushed a row of shirts out of the way, then gathered an armload of robes and carried them to the bed.

Harry was still staring into the wardrobe. “I’ve never seen so many clothes,” he said, mostly to himself, since Draco was busy sorting through the pile of robes laid out on the bed. He turned away from the wardrobe after a moment to see what Draco was doing, then smiled at what he saw. Draco was holding two robes up side by side, his head tilted slightly, his expression thoughtful, appraising. “I thought my cousin had a lot of clothes,” Harry teased, “but _this_ . . .”

With a glance back at Harry, Draco said softly, “My mother likes to buy me clothes. She knows I like to wear nice things.” He laid one of the robes down, and stood for a moment stroking the velvet trim on the one he still held. “But, I’ve never worn half of these.” He paused, then added, “It’s all she can do for me now . . . and I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop.”

There was an undercurrent of sadness in Draco’s voice that made Harry go to him. His arms went around Draco’s shoulders and he bent his head to kiss the edge of Draco’s ear. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Draco shrugged slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You were right,” he said with a small, wry grin. He turned his head and kissed Harry. “The Malfoy collection of dress robes _is_ beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.” He held up the robe he was holding so Harry could see it. “I think we would look good in this.”

“We?” asked Harry, looking over Draco’s shoulder at the black velvet trimmed robe. It was made of a black fabric that seemed to shimmer with silver when it moved. “You have two?”

“No,” replied Draco smugly, turning around to face Harry, “but I know a duplicating spell.”

Harry grinned. “Everyone will be even more horribly shocked, you know. If we go dressed alike.”

“I know,” said Draco, grinning back conspiratorially. “It’ll be brilliant.”

Harry laughed. Draco seemed to have completely forgotten that he had originally been worried about them being seen together. “Do you still want me to try it on?”

Draco handed the robe to Harry. “Of course I do – I want to see how you look in it, before I decide.”

“Right,” said Harry, having hoped for a moment that Draco had already decided and he wouldn’t have to try anything on. At least, it seemed, he might only have to try on this one. He held up the robe and found that it was more complicated than he had originally noticed. It was made of a fine black fabric, closefitting through the body with small buttons that curved from the side waist to the center of the high velvet collar, and the full sleeves had buttons above the long fitted velvet cuffs.

The back was fashioned like a cape, the edges also trimmed in black velvet, that was gathered at one shoulder by a silver brooch shaped like a Celtic knot, then draped over the other shoulder to fall to the floor. It was the lining of this cape that Harry had seen shimmer with silver. A long black velvet sash looped around the waist and was fastened at the side with another silver pin. Harry was sure he had never worn anything so elegant. “How does it open?” he asked, eyeing all the buttons suspiciously. “Do I have to unbutton all of these?”

Draco gave him an amused look. “Unless you know how to Apparate inside it, you do.”

Harry suppressed a sigh and moved past Draco to sit down on the bed so that he could use both hands to work the buttons. It took several minutes, and Draco had to help finally, but at last Harry got the robe on and stood before Draco for a verdict. It was several more minutes, or so it seemed to Harry, before Draco nodded his approval.

“Stunning,” said Draco softly, coming to stand very close, facing Harry, his arms going around Harry’s neck.

The heat crept up in Harry’s face again as Draco kissed him. His hands came up to hold Draco lightly, slipping around Draco’s bare waist to rest against his back. “There’s one thing, though,” he said when they parted. He stepped back a step from Draco and indicated the front of the robe. “It’s a bit drafty.”

Draco snorted and looked at Harry with a mischievous light in his eyes. The robe was split over the left leg from the waist to the floor where the two front panels met, which, since at the moment Harry was only wearing a pair of boxers, exposed one bare leg from thigh to foot. “I rather like it this way,” said Draco. He paused for effect then added, “But there are matching trousers that go under it.”

It took Draco a few minutes to find the trousers that went with the robe, and Harry tried those on too. Then they looked for a pair of boots. Harry was just slipping his feet into a promising pair when a shaft of sunlight streamed in through the window and lit up the room. Draco looked up, his interest caught by the possible significance of that sudden brightening, and went to the window to look out.

“These fit,” called Harry, sitting on the other side of the bed. He stood up and walked to the wardrobe to look in the mirror on the back of the closet door. He had to admit that he did look good. Stunning wasn’t something he would ascribe to himself, but, he grinned, he was glad that Draco thought so. “Are we done?” he asked hopefully.

The sunlight faded, dimming the room again, but Draco, gazing out at the sky, was smiling. The clouds were breaking up, and so it seemed his plans for the afternoon were going to turn out as he had wished after all. He turned away from the window and came around the corner of the bed to find Harry standing in front of the wardrobe, then stopped, heart-struck by what he saw. The clothes made a difference certainly, but it was Harry himself, standing with his arms out a little from his sides to invite Draco’s inspection, his chin up, hair tousled from trying on the clothes, and green eyes soft, kindling with affection, waiting to know what Draco thought, that Draco found inexpressibly stunning.

A wave of love shivered through Draco and he stood still, lifting one hand to hold on to the bedpost to steady himself. There was a glow in Harry’s face, a welcome in his eyes, that spoke straight to Draco’s heart. The way Harry looked at him now was so profoundly changed from only a week ago it was staggering. It was what Draco had desperately wanted, and could hardly believe . . . _and_ , said a small choked voice inside him, would be lost to him forever so soon . . . _so soon_.

 _Not today!_ thought Draco, slamming a door in his mind against this thought. He’d vowed that today, for this one day, he would not think about the future.

“So, is this okay?” asked Harry, breaking into Draco’s thoughts.

Draco turned his full attention back to Harry, and letting go of the bedpost, came to stand close in front of him. He straightened Harry’s collar a little, then adjusted the folds of the cape across Harry’s chest. “You look perfect,” he said, his voice low, full of warmth.

Harry blushed slightly. “It’s the fancy clothes,” he said.

“It isn’t the clothes,” said Draco, putting his arms around Harry and pulling him close. “It’s just you. That you’re here with me. That you want to be here. Sometimes I can’t quite believe it.”

“I want to be with you,” responded Harry quietly, “very much.” Green eyes met gray and there was only honesty, simple and unalloyed, in them. “Please believe it,” he added in a whisper as Draco’s mouth found his.

Draco kissed Harry with a tremulous intensity that was not desire, but rather the outpouring of all the powerful, mixed emotions he felt – the wanting, the fear of losing, the love, the deep gratitude that not only was he allowed to share a kiss with this person but that this person was holding him and kissing him back – all of it flooded through him, igniting into a sudden flare of tender passion that left both of them trembling and clinging to each other, breathless.

“Draco?” whispered Harry, dropping his head to kiss Draco’s neck, the top of one bare shoulder. But Draco was pulling away, slipping out of his arms, escaping the unspoken question in Harry’s voice, elusive as water in a sieve. He met Harry’s eyes for a second, the color in his face high, apology vivid in the gray eyes – and then he was standing an arm’s length away, out of reach.

“I should put these away,” said Draco, his voice unsteady, turning to the pile of dress robes on the bed.

Harry stood silent and watched as Draco gathered up the robes. He stood aside as Draco came back to put them away in the wardrobe. He toed off the boots, and pulled off the pants, handing them to Draco without a word. Then with shaking fingers he started on the buttons of the robe he was wearing. Finally he pulled that off over his head and gave it to Draco.

Draco put everything away and got out his own clothes. “You can get dressed now,” he said softly to Harry. He walked to the bathroom, then turned at the doorway and looked at Harry over his shoulder, a small smile beginning to show again at the corners of his mouth. “Dress warm,” he said, before he closed the door, “because after lunch, we’re going outside.”

For a long moment, Harry just stared at the closed bathroom door, biting his bottom lip, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, completely mystified again, and frustrated, by Draco’s contradictory behavior. But, for the time being at least, he was willing to wait – it wouldn’t be much longer until the game was over. He walked slowly to the foot of the bed to find his bag and pulled out the red plaid flannel shirt he had brought.

_Dress warm . . . outside . . ._

_Snow!_ Harry grinned to himself. Now that was something he _could_ understand.

When Draco came out of the bathroom, he found Harry dressed and sitting at his desk, elbows propped on the edge, chin in his hands, contemplating the chessboard. Light from the window was flooding the room in a more persistent way than it had earlier. It was nearly noon.

Draco went to look out the window again and saw that the snow clouds were swept clear, the sky bright with crisp sunlight. He smiled in satisfaction and went to join Harry. “My turn,” he said. Harry sat back, giving him room, waiting, green eyes full of curiosity and expectation. With only a second’s hesitation, Draco moved his Rook one place sideways. “Rook to G1.” He tilted his head and gazed down at Harry with a pleased, excited expression. “I want you to go flying with me,” he said. “Not playing Quidditch, not competing . . . just us flying, for fun.”

Harry stood up, his eyes lit with a matching excitement. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you would say,” he said. “But I have to go back to my dorm to get my broom.”

Draco raised one eyebrow and grinned mischievously. “We can eat lunch first,” he said as he walked back to the table in front of the hearth, “then we’ll get your broom. I have an idea about that.”

It didn’t take them long to eat the sandwiches that appeared on the table. Draco loaned Harry a wool sweater to wear over his flannel shirt and some dragonhide gloves that Harry suspected were far too expensive to be worn riding brooms in the snow. But Draco had insisted and Harry gave in.

When they were dressed in their winter cloaks and mufflers, Draco fished his own broom out from under his bed, and beckoned Harry over to the window. “Come on,” he urged when Harry gave him a questioning look. “We’re not going out through the castle.” He opened the window, then straddled the broom. Harry got on behind him, wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist just in time to hold on as Draco flew up and straight out the window. “Can you find your window in the Gryffindor Tower?” Draco asked as they skirted up over peaked rooftops and turreted walls.

“I think so,” said Harry, hanging on tightly. “There,” he said, pointing ahead as Draco rounded one side of the castle. “That’s it – my room is at the top.”

“This one?” asked Draco, veering in to hover close by an arched window near the top of the round stone tower.

Harry squinted, but the glare from the snow made it hard to see in. “Get a little closer,” he said, “so I can knock.” He held on to Draco with one arm, and reached out as Draco brought the broom up to the window, and rapped several times on the glass. At first, nothing happened, but then a figure appeared and a moment later, Seamus, a huge grin on his face, was opening the window.

“Hey, guys!” he called over his shoulder. “It’s Harry!” He leaned out the window, laughing. “And oooh,” he chortled, “he’s riding Malfoy’s broomstick!”

“Can you just hand me my broom, Seamus?” said Harry in a mortified voice, his ears burning and not from the cold air. “It’s under my bed.”

“I don’t know, Harry,” laughed Seamus. “That looks awfully cozy,” he added, making an obvious reference to the way Harry was sitting pressed against Draco, his arms around Draco’s waist.

Draco glanced back at Harry and grinned, seemingly not at all embarrassed by Seamus’s innuendos.

“My broom, please?” groaned Harry.

“I’ve got it,” said Neville helpfully, appearing behind Seamus, blushing but grinning, holding Harry’s Firebolt up, then handing it outside into Harry’s outstretched hand.

“Any chance you’d take me instead?” teased Seamus, giving Draco a flirtatious look.

“Finnigan,” drawled Draco, flipping his hair back and grinning devilishly, “you and your broomstick have as much chance of coming with me as a basilisk in a henhouse.”

Seamus leaned against the window frame, gone suddenly limp with laughing.

“Thank you, Neville,” called Harry, as Draco angled his broom sharply away from the castle wall and took off across the grounds towards Hogsmeade. They flew over the Forbidden Forest in a straight line, keeping low over the trees, then landed on the outskirts of the town.

“Ever flown past here?” Draco asked. “Past the far end of town?”

“No,” said Harry, his mind not entirely on the question. Draco’s eyes were bright, his face flushed from the cold, and Harry wanted very much to kiss him. “Have you?”

“I might have,” Draco replied cryptically. “The forest is tamer out that way – it’s broken up by fields and some farms. It’s safer than flying over the Forbidden Forest.”

Harry had a sudden vision of first-year Draco screaming and bolting from the sight of Voldemort drinking unicorn blood in the Forbidden Forest the night they had detention with Hagrid. At the time, he’d been far too scared, and in pain from his scar, to have seen anything funny about it. But now . . . He tried to suppress a grin but wasn’t entirely successful.

Draco raised one eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Harry, smiling. “I’m just glad we’re not flying over the Forbidden Forest. Too many bad memories.” He jumped on his Firebolt. “Let’s go!” he called as he circled up into the air.

With an answering smile, Draco was right behind him, then whooshed past, leading Harry in a swift, riotous chase over Hogsmeade and out across the bright snow-covered fields and trees beyond.

The world seemed full of light, bouncing in dazzling, blinding sparks off the snow. Harry's heart felt filled with it. He had flown with Cho, but never like this. This was wild and abandoned and breathtaking, pushing each other to the edge of recklessness. It was exhilarating. They flew as if they were perfectly attuned, a single force in duplicate, streaking in unison through the sunlit sky.

They had done this many times before, Harry recognized suddenly – tearing through the sky over the Quidditch pitch, dodging, weaving, diving as one, bent on the same small objective. But this time it wasn’t competition that drove them, but just being together in pure flat out flight, something they both understood and didn’t have to explain. Harry felt he could barely breathe for the cold air and the sheer joy of it.

Draco suddenly slowed down as they overshot a large field, banked, and circled back.

Harry followed and caught up a moment later.

Hovering over the center of the meadow, Draco took out his wand, and stared down at the perfect, unmarked expanse of snow below. He looked up as Harry flew closer, grinning. “I’ve always wanted to do this!” he shouted across the space of sky that separated them.

Waiting until he had maneuvered his broom close enough so they wouldn’t have to shout, Harry asked, “Do what?”

With a sweep of his hand, Draco indicated the width of the meadow below them. “It’s like a huge blank sheet of parchment,” he explained, excitement evident in his eyes. “It’s just crying out to be written on!”

“Okay,” laughed Harry. Draco’s enthusiasm was contagious. “What are you going to write?”

Draco raised one eyebrow. “My name, of course,” he said with mock arrogance, as if it should have been obvious. “Really big.”

Harry laughed again. “Go on, then. I’ll watch.”

Flashing a smile at Harry, Draco brought his broom down until he was hovering about six meters over the ground on the left side of the field. He pointed his wand and a stream of blue fire shot from the end melting a deep groove in the snow. Flying slowly and holding his wand steady, Draco flew so that the groove became the first long sweep of the capital letter D. He looped around, swung out in a large arc that went back to his starting point, and ended with another looping flourish.

From Harry’s vantage point high above, a perfect script letter D was now clearly written in the snow. The blue fire Draco was using reminded Harry of the fire Hermione had used on the Devil’s Snare back in first year – a spell he still didn’t know. He watched for a minute more, before deciding to make something of his own while Draco was busy.

He landed in the opposite corner of the field from where Draco was working, and scooped up a handful of snow. Starting that rolling, he very soon had a ball of snow large enough to be the base of a big snowman. He rolled a second ball for the middle section and used _Wingardium Leviosa_ to levitate it on top of the bottom one, repeating the process for the head. Then, walking over to the edge of the nearby woods, he collected a couple of dead sticks, a bunch of long, dried, stringy grass, and a pine cone. He had to search for a few minutes more, kicking aside the snow and fallen leaves, but finally found two large, dark, roundish stones that he was satisfied with.

It was just as he stepped back to admire his finished handiwork that the first snowball whizzed past his ear. Harry spun around and had to immediately duck a second snowball aimed right at his head. “Hey!” he yelled and scooped up a handful of ammunition.

Draco was standing near the spot where Harry had left his broom, packing a third snowball in his hands, a huge, smug grin on his face.

“Missed me!” shouted Harry, and let his snowball fly.

“Ha!” yelled Draco, ducking Harry’s missile easily and in one smooth motion, throwing his own.

Harry bent down to grab another handful of snow, but when he stood up to throw it, the snowball Draco had just thrown was on a swift collision course for his face. Reflexes took over and he threw up his one empty hand to deflect it. An instantaneous, but not completely conscious thought shot through his mind – one powerful thought fueled by the reflexive adrenaline rush of that expected impending impact. Harry wished the snowball was something soft, something harmless, that it wouldn’t hit him, and in the next instant, the snowball exploded in mid-air, all the bits of it transfiguring into small white butterflies.

Almost at the same moment, Draco sank down on his knees in the snow. For a second, he was too stunned and dizzy to realize what had happened, but then his equilibrium returned and he sat back on his heels, completely astonished. He watched with Harry in amazed silence as the little round cloud of butterflies, looking for all the world like a floating, super-expanded snowball, rose up into the sky and flew away.

“Do you realize what you just did!?” shouted Draco. He shook his head at Harry’s very startled and perplexed expression. “You just did wandless magic . . . and it wasn’t a healing spell! It wasn’t even a spell!” Then his amazement turned to amusement and he started laughing. “But butterflies!?” he teased. “ _Butterflies!!_ ” He was laughing hard now. “God, Potter! That’s got to be the _poofiest_ thing I’ve ever seen!”

Harry strode over and pounced on him, trying to stuff the handful of snow he still held down the front of Draco’s sweater.

Draco went down on his back in the snow, still laughing, but valiantly trying to protect the precious black cashmere sweater he was wearing. “Nooooo!” he protested, grabbing Harry’s wrists, but laughing too hard to hold on. “Not the sweater!”

Harry gave up on ruining Draco’s sweater and pinned Draco down instead, and sat on him, straddling his stomach. They were both laughing, breath pluming in the chilly air. Draco’s pale hair was fanned out against the snow, as if it were the white of a pillow, and his face was smiling and rosy from the cold, his eyes bright from laughing.

Harry’s breath caught – it wasn’t that he’d never seen Draco look beautiful before, but this was a new revelation of that beauty, and it took Harry, as it had each time before, by surprise. A rush of caring, of desire stirring, swept over him – he’d never had Draco in such a position, or so much at his mercy, and he gazed down at the other boy, his heart racing, not sure how to best take advantage of it.

Draco, however, immediately settled Harry’s momentary dilemma by giving up all pretense of trying to fight Harry off, and switching tactics, pulled him down into a kiss. It was a short kiss, its brevity not at all an indication of the emotion behind it, but barely a moment after it was begun, Draco was pushing Harry away. “Let me up,” he said with a hint of urgency, looking up into Harry’s brilliant, questioning green eyes. “My hair’s getting wet.”

With a laugh, Harry stood up and reaching down to grasp Draco’s extended hand, tugged Draco up too. He turned the blond around to brush the clinging snow off his back and smooth down the fine hair that was barely damp. “Your hair is fine,” he assured Draco, but he couldn’t disguise the trace of teasing in his tone.

Draco turned to face Harry, one eyebrow raised, glancing up in obvious skeptical consideration of Harry’s wild, windblown hair. He dropped his gaze to meet Harry’s and his teasing expression softened. “So is yours,” he said with a crooked grin. For a moment, their eyes held each other, green meeting gray in a world of white, then Draco tangled one gloved hand in the collar of Harry’s cloak, the other arm going around Harry’s neck. “That was an amazing thing you did,” he said, his voice soft and awed, just a breath against Harry’s mouth, before he pulled Harry back into the kiss that he’d interrupted.

There was nothing brief about the kiss this time. Harry’s hands found their way inside Draco’s cloak, to the warmth encompassed there; he snuggled in so that the thick wool draped over them both. Draco’s mouth was warm too, and Harry let all this warmth enfold him. He had, for a second, thought that Draco had pulled away from the first kiss for another reason, the same way he had slipped away from Harry last night and this morning, avoiding Harry’s desire, his questions. But now, Draco seemed to be overcome with a need to kiss him senseless, and Harry surrendered to it willingly, giving himself up to this kiss, responding with pleasure but making no demands that might cause Draco to withdraw again.

The words Draco had just spoken went through Harry’s mind, and he was suddenly stunned, struck by the implications. Draco held him closer, deepening the kiss and Harry felt himself shiver against the other boy, thrill tremors igniting deep inside him at Draco’s touch, at the revelation in his words. Draco had not been too awed by Harry’s wandless magic to tease him about his messy hair, but even the teasing had shown that Draco didn’t mind the messy hair, had in fact found it endearing.

Draco loved him, all of him – both Harry-of-the-rare-magical-power and Harry-of-the-unruly-hair – both flaws and talents accepted as parts of a whole, neither outweighing the other. There was nothing of the hero worship that Harry despised in Draco’s acknowledgement of Harry’s gift, and everything of loving him, wanting him just for himself. It was what Harry had always longed for, and holding Draco now here in his arms, kissing him, brought a rush of memory of last night flooding over him too. Harry felt he had never been more in love than at this moment.

Draco pulled gently back, breaking the kiss, then kissing Harry softly again. He let go of Harry’s cloak and put that arm also around Harry’s neck, hugging him, his face turned in against the side of Harry’s face.

Draco’s hair was cold and silky against his cheek, a feathery caress that touched his heart for all its simplicity, and made Harry hold Draco tighter. Harry held him like that for several minutes; Draco seemed not to want the moment to end at all and Harry was more than willing to give him all the time he wanted. He felt Draco sigh finally and turn his head to face out over Harry’s shoulder, then Harry felt him draw a sharp breath in surprise and suddenly Draco snickered.

“Oh God,” Draco laughed, looking over Harry’s shoulder. “That’s hilarious.” And Harry turned around to see his snow rendition of Professor Snape, with its lank grass hair and large pinecone nose, facing them. A fat twig broken in several places formed a crooked zigzag line for the mouth, giving it an appalled expression; its dark stony eyes were big and round, the thin stick arms thrown up to the sky in horror, as if reacting again to their kissing. “A perfect likeness,” declared Draco, turning back to Harry, his eyes shining. “He looks totally scandalized.”

Harry felt his face flush, partly from the kiss and partly from Draco’s praise. Approval from the other boy was still unexpected, still caught him off-guard. He grinned. “At least this one can’t take House points,” he said. “Or give us detention.” They stood together for a few minutes admiring the snowman, Harry’s arm stealing around Draco’s back. After a moment, though, Harry found himself gazing at Draco’s face instead of at the snowman, and a few seconds later, Draco turned to meet that gaze.

The kindled warmth in Draco’s eyes brought back all the thoughts he’d had while Draco was kissing him and he remembered the chess move he had planned that morning. There was something he needed to say. Long blue tree shadows were stretching across the field behind them, the first rose-gold hints of sunset tinting the sky, and Harry knew suddenly exactly when and where he wanted to say it. “We should go,” he said. “It’s my turn in the game . . . there’s something I want to do.”

“I want you to see my name before we go,” insisted Draco, as they walked back to their brooms.

They flew up and hovered over the field, and Harry had to laugh again. Sprawled elegantly over the entire field below, just as if it were written across a vast sheet of white parchment, was the huge signature of Draco Malfoy.

Very impressive!” shouted Harry, with a grin.

Draco grinned smugly back, then looked down at his name, his satisfaction mingled suddenly with a sharp edge of sadness. In a week or so, when the snow melted, when those two words that held his identity vanished into the cold, muddy earth . . . what would be left of him then? Resolutely he turned to Harry, pushing that thought from his mind. “I’m ready,” he shouted back. “Where do you want to go?”

“Knight to B4,” called out Harry. “Follow me!” He led Draco this time, flying fast in wide rising circles. They flew up, faster and faster, spiraling around each other, the arc of the circles tightening as they flew higher and higher into the sunset sky, their ascent laid against a backdrop painted bright with long radiant wisps of clouds shot through with streamers of pink, apricot, and amethyst.

The Forbidden Forest blurred beneath them, the world laid out below like a tapestry of gilded patchwork as the setting sun poured rivers of molten gold across the snowy fields and forests. Harry stopped finally and caught hold of Draco. They were both out of breath and flushed from the wind that whipped their cloaks out behind them like rippling flags.

Clinging to each other, they watched the sun slip beyond the horizon. Then Harry drew Draco close and kissed him there, high over the spinning world in a sky full of spilled colors. “Draco,” said Harry, as a deep blue dusk fell around them, his voice soft, trembling slightly, “I don’t know when you thought it would be a good time to tell you this . . . I wanted to say it last night.” He pulled away just enough to meet Draco’s eyes, eyes that reflected the vivid, velvet twilight. “I love you, too.”

Draco had his arms around Harry then, completely heedless of the danger of falling. “This was a perfect time,” he breathed, kissing Harry back. And it was quite dark, the stars full and brilliant overhead, before they came down.

* * * * * 

The boys flew cautiously through Draco’s window, being careful with their brooms in such close quarters, and both landed without mishap in the darkened room. It was much later than they had imagined; they had missed dinner entirely and Draco was late for his prefect rounds. Fortunately, the spelled table still worked, and they ate dinner in a rush.

“Let me come with you,” suggested Harry, hurriedly swallowing a bite of shepherd’s pie. “I have the Invisibility Cloak. No one would know.”

“It’s really quite boring,” warned Draco, finishing the last bite of his.

“It’ll be boring here without you,” countered Harry hopefully.

“You could look at my books,” offered Draco, going to get his school robes on.

Harry eyed the shelves of Potions tomes and rolled his eyes. “Not bloody likely,” he said with a grin. “I would much rather walk up and down empty halls with you, looking for non-existent spies and poorly-hidden, late-night snoggers.”

Draco laughed. Of course he didn’t mind if Harry came along. Prefect rounds were not among his favorite things to do, and company would improve the night’s tedious duty immeasurably.

* * * * * 

Draco finished his rounds and was headed back to the Slytherin tower; Harry under the Invisibility Cloak was walking beside him, holding his hand. Their walk had so far been uneventful – no spies, or even surreptitious snoggers, had been spotted. It had been very nice to have Harry’s company, even if he couldn’t see him. They were just about to turn the corner into the corridor by the Transfiguration classroom when a rough shout from behind froze them in their tracks, the gruff voice unmistakable.

_Filch!_

“You!” commanded the grizzled old caretaker, as he came down the hall toward them. “Stop right there!”

Draco made an annoyed sound and turned to face the old man. Harry moved around behind Draco, his hands holding onto the sides of Draco’s waist. Just before Filch reached them, Harry leaned into Draco.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” whispered Harry in a sing-song voice in Draco’s ear.

Draco’s eyes went wide and he had to swallow the snort of laughter he’d almost made because Filch was suddenly right there.

Filch grimaced gleefully at Draco like an ogre that had cornered its prey.

Draco touched his badge. “Prefect rounds, sir,” he said, trying to keep a straight face.

“You’re late, Malfoy,” growled Filch, squinting his eyes menacingly, obviously disappointed that Draco had a legitimate excuse for being out. “It’s past time you should’ve been doing that.”

“I know, sir,” said Draco. “I forgot it was my turn – ”

“Forgot!” Filch grinned maliciously. “Of all the pathetic excuses . . .”

“But I’m finished now, sir,” Draco added, hurriedly. “I just was on my way back to my room.”

“Oh, Poopsie-Kins,” whispered that sing-song voice again next to Draco’s ear. Draco bit his lip and stepped back hard, his heel finding invisible toes. He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him and had to struggle not to laugh out loud.

“Eh?” Filch leaned in close to Draco, his face screwed up with suspicion. “What was that? What did you say?”

“Nothing, sir,” choked out Draco. He coughed slightly, then coughed louder to cover Harry’s next giggle-stifled whisper of, “Dumplin-Wumplin.” He cleared his throat, only Filch’s nasty look keeping him from breaking out in a grin. “It’s only a bit of a cough, I have. Sorry, sir.”

Filch eyed him nastily. “Well, maybe you should go up to the hospital wing and have the nurse take a look at that,” he said with a sarcastic sneer. “Maybe she can give you something to fix your memory too!”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco, his voice horribly constrained.

“Hrumph,” muttered Filch, turning away. “Get on with you, then. If I find you out here after hours again, I won’t be so easy on you.” He stomped off, back the way he had come.

Draco turned around, grabbed Harry and dragged him in the other direction, the way they had been going before Filch stopped them, to the end of the hall and around the corner. They ducked into the Transfiguration classroom, Draco managing to pull Harry to the front of the room out of sight of the open doorway before they collapsed against each other laughing. “God, Harry,” gasped Draco. “You nearly got me detention out there!”

Harry pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, and grinned at Draco. “And you nearly crushed my toe!” He laughed again, and leaned back against the blackboard behind him. “That was brilliant – ‘only a bit of a cough!’”

Draco laughed and moved in to stand close in front of Harry, his hands coming up to press Harry’s shoulders back, pinning him to the blackboard. “I demand retribution for the trouble you nearly made me suffer,” he said in a low, teasing voice.

“Oh, you do?” said Harry, teasing back, his arms going around Draco’s waist to pull them together. “And what do _I_ get for my suffering toe?”

Draco leaned in to kiss Harry. “This,” he said softly, kissing Harry once lightly, “is for me. And,” he added, pulling back just enough to say the words against Harry’s lips, “this is for your toe.” Then he kissed Harry deeply. “Better?” he asked, a bit breathlessly, when they finally parted.

“Much better,” said Harry on a sigh. One hand skimmed up Draco’s back to smooth the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck and pull him into another kiss. “I think maybe I’ll be able to walk again, now.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but was only barely hiding a grin. “Then we should get back,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Before Filch catches us again.”

Harry nodded. As he let go of Draco, one hand brushed the chalk rail behind him, and he turned slightly, noticing for the first time what he was leaning against. A piece of chalk lay only a few inches from his fingers. “Wait!” he said, suddenly struck by an idea. He picked up the chalk and turned to Draco with a smirk. “I think we should leave Filch a little message.”

“Ha,” snickered Draco. “As long as _I_ don’t get blamed for it.”

Laughing quietly, Harry drew a large heart on the blackboard. Draco was watching Harry, so neither of them saw the cat that slipped through the doorway. The cat stopped dead in its tracks when it saw the two boys and stood quite still. Harry finished drawing the heart, then with a devious glance at Draco, wrote words inside it. _Filch + Poopsie-Kins_. Stifling a laugh, Draco draped one arm loosely over Harry’s shoulders. The cat sat down suddenly, its eyes wide as saucers, ears flattened back, the nervous flick of its tail showing its agitation.

Draco took the chalk from Harry with a broad grin. Under the words he drew a silly cat face with crossed eyes. Then, outside the heart, down by the point he wrote _True_ on the left side and _Love_ on the right.

“Oh, God,” said Harry, grinning, his arm going around Draco’s back. “That’s perfect. I wish we could see his face when he sees that.” He leaned forward and kissed Draco.

The cat shot to its feet like it had been electrified. Its back arched, the hair on its tail stood out like a bottlebrush. With a startled hiss, it turned and streaked from the room. And it was a shame that Draco, who was still kissing Harry, didn’t see it. The reaction was everything he could have hoped for.

“Come on,” said Draco, when Harry let him go. “I _really_ don’t think we want to be here when Filch sees that.”

“No,” said Harry, with a snort of laughter. “But you’d better go with me under the Invisibility Cloak now. Filch would expect you to have been back in your room ages ago, so it wouldn’t be good to meet him in the corridor again on the way back.”

A short time later, Harry and Draco, arms around each other’s waists under the Invisibility Cloak, were making their way down the main stairs to the entrance hall, headed for the Slytherin tower entrance. It was Harry who saw the cat first and froze halfway down the stairs, pulling Draco tightly back to stop him too. “Don’t move,” he whispered urgently. He nodded down toward the entrance hall. “Mrs. Norris!”

Draco looked down and sure enough, there was the cat, sitting boldly in the middle of the entrance hall, its head tilted slightly as if it were listening intently. He swore softly, then turned to Harry. “Now what?” he whispered back.

“Go slow,” said Harry. “She can’t see us, so even if she can smell us, if we don’t make any noise, she won’t understand that we’re here. I’ve gotten past her like that before.”

Nodding, Draco tightened his arm around Harry, and with a look of agreement between them, they started, step by step, creeping noiselessly down the stairs.

It seemed to take forever. At each step, Harry watched the cat, but other than a twitch now and then in the tip of its tail, or a flick of its ear, it never moved. They were at the bottom step when Harry, glancing up again, finally noticed the dark, rectangular markings around the cat’s eyes. “Oh my God,” he breathed suddenly, and he clutched at Draco, his heart in his throat.

Draco looked at him, startled. “What?” he mouthed, barely making a sound.

But Harry didn’t have to explain. The cat stood up, and suddenly it grew, changed shape, and took human form. Within seconds, Professor McGonagall stood where the cat had been. She took a couple of steps toward them, then crossed her arms over her chest. Her face was very stern. “Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy,” she said severely. “I know you’re there, so let’s please dispense with this little charade.”

Harry groaned and slowly pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. He glanced at Draco, noting with dismay that Draco was tense and frowning, eyebrows drawn down over apprehensive eyes. Reaching behind the folds of the cloak, Harry took Draco’s hand. Draco glanced back at Harry, his expression relaxing slightly.

McGonagall fixed her attention on Harry. “Mr. Potter,” she said in a very clipped tone, jerking Harry’s attention back from Draco. “What is the meaning of this?”

Harry took a deep breath, knowing it would be best to tell the truth. “Draco had prefect rounds to do,” he said. “I went with him.”

For a moment, McGonagall turned her piercing stare on Draco. “That explains Mr. Malfoy’s presence in the corridors after hours, though he should have finished some time ago.” She turned back to Harry. “It does not explain _why_ you are out here with him.” Then her voice seemed to rise in pitch slightly, “Nor does it explain what was going on in my classroom!”

Harry and Draco exchanged stunned looks. This was getting worse by the minute. How much had she seen?

As if in answer to their unspoken question, McGonagall went on. “I saw everything,” she stated fiercely. “I should give you both detention!”

Draco paled visibly and Harry squeezed his hand, helpless to do anything else.

She fixed them each with her most withering gaze. “I should,” she repeated, still scolding, yet obviously relenting a little, “but I’m going to wait until morning to decide that . . . after I’ve had time to give this . . . situation . . . some thought.” She looked at Draco again, her regard questioning under the sternness. “Mr. Malfoy, you may go back to your room. I will walk Mr. Potter back to his dormitory.”

Harry’s heart sank, and he turned to Draco with anguish and apology in his green eyes.

Draco met Harry’s eyes, looking stricken, gray eyes full of sharp disappointment. Then with effort, he composed himself and faced Professor McGonagall. “May I say goodnight to Harry?” he asked, quiet determination in his voice. After a second of silence, he added, “Privately.”

McGonagall’s mouth set in a very thin line, but she nodded. “Make it quick,” she said tartly. “Potter, I’ll be waiting for you.” She swept past the boys and started up the stairs.

Harry dropped the Invisibility Cloak, stepping toward Draco and Draco leaned into him. Their arms went around each other and they just stood like that for a few moments. “I’m sorry,” whispered Harry. “This was my fault. If I hadn’t come with you – ”

“Shh,” said Draco. “It doesn’t matter.” After a moment, he pulled back to meet Harry’s eyes. “It was a perfect day.”

“It was,” agreed Harry. “I’ll . . . miss you tonight.”

Draco’s eyes closed. “Me too,” he said very softly. Then he bent his head and kissed Harry and all of his memories of their night and day together were in it. When the kiss ended, Draco rested his forehead against Harry’s and they clung together, blood racing, an unseen glitter of gold and crystalline sparks shimmering between them. “Good night,” whispered Draco, finally letting Harry go.

“Night,” whispered Harry back. He moved out of Draco’s embrace and bent to pick up the Invisibility Cloak. Taking out his wand, he shrunk it so that it fit back into his pocket, and looked up at Draco one last time. Their hands reached out and clasped for a second, then with a final squeeze, Harry turned reluctantly away. Each step he took up the stairs felt like lead and his heart was already heavy with longing by the time he reached the top.

Draco stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched as Harry trailed up the staircase after Professor McGonagall. Harry paused, midway up, and turned to look back at him for a moment, before he continued on to the top. With a deep sigh, Draco started back to his room. His one day with Harry was over.

Harry found Professor McGonagall waiting for him at the top of the staircase. She gave him a searching look that made him wonder how much she had watched while he and Draco had said goodnight. “Professor?” he said, hesitantly, unsure how angry she was. “I . . . it was my idea to go with Draco, and my idea to draw on the blackboard.” McGonagall fixed him with a very stern eye, and he hesitated, then took a deep breath, determined to go on. “I was hoping . . . maybe . . . that you wouldn’t give Draco detention. Just me.”

“From what I saw, Mr. Malfoy appeared to be a perfectly willing participant,” she stated flatly. She gave him one more critical look, then turned to go. “Come along, now,” she said in a clipped tone. “I don’t intend to stand here discussing it.”

Harry was silent, his heart downcast, as he followed the professor up the many staircases to the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. On the way he remembered that his broom, his cloak, and his bag with his overnight things were still in Draco’s room, but he didn’t dare tell that to McGonagall and expose the fact that he’d been spending the night in the Slytherin tower. About half-way up the third staircase, she stopped and turned, and Harry, lost in thought, almost bumped into her.

“How long has . . .” she paused, seemingly momentarily lost for words, “. . . what I saw in my classroom . . . been going on between you and Malfoy?”

“Almost a week,” said Harry feebly, thinking how impossibly short that sounded for all that had happened.

“And where were the two of you going when I stopped you?”

Harry gulped. “I was walking him back to the Slytherin tower,” he said, knowing with a pang of guilt that it wasn’t the complete truth.

“Potter,” she said, her voice at once both exasperated and sympathetic, “all of the teachers have noticed that Malfoy has been behaving differently this year, but do you think it’s wise to get . . . involved . . . with the very person who . . . whose father . . .”

“I don’t know if it’s wise,” said Harry, squaring his shoulders and meeting her honestly concerned gaze unflinchingly. “I know I don’t want to stop it.”

McGonagall looked very troubled. “Very well,” she said hesitantly. “But you know I will have to report this to the headmaster.”

A bit of a smile quirked at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’m pretty sure he already knows.”

Professor McGonagall’s eyebrows went up at that, but she pursed her lips and they continued walking the rest of the way to the Gryffindor common room in silence. Harry turned to her as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, a puzzled look in his eyes. “Professor,” he started, “how did you know we were there? I’ve tiptoed past Mrs. Norris lots of times.”

Professor McGonagall put her nose down and regarded Harry over the tops of her small rectangular glasses with a slightly insulted air. “I only assume the _shape_ of a cat, Mr. Potter. I certainly do not _become_ one. I, unlike Mrs. Norris, know about Invisibility Cloaks, and I can understand you are there whether I see you or not.”

* * * * * 

“Cream Puff,” said Harry, and tried to look apologetic when the Fat Lady gave him a sleepy, annoyed frown as she opened the portrait hole. To his surprise, Ginny was curled up on the sofa in the common room with a book. She looked up, startled that someone was coming in so late, and when she saw it was Harry, she quickly looked away, her book falling closed in her hands. Harry was very tired, and more than a little unsettled by the episode with McGonagall, but after hesitating a moment, he knew he might not have a better opportunity to talk to Ginny alone and went to sit by her.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a rush, as she turned to him, her eyes full of hurt and questions. “I know it was sudden, and you were shocked.” He met her eyes honestly, and took a deep breath. “But I love him, Ginny – I’m only asking you and Ron to give him a chance to show you he’s changed.”

Ginny looked down at the book in her lap, her hands pressed flat, tense, on the cover. “Harry, his father tried to kill me,” she said in a low, unsteady voice. “But even before that, my father taught us to distrust everything associated with the name Malfoy.” Her fingers curled around the edges of her book, holding it tightly, and she glanced up at Harry again. “You know how my parents feel about you,” she said, pleading with him. “They will be horribly upset by this – and not because you’re with another boy.” She paused, then added, “I’m pretty sure at least one of my brothers is gay, and they’re okay with it. But you with Malfoy . . .” She shook her head, her expression sad and tight. “No, this isn’t something we can just accept. Draco Malfoy is going to have to prove he deserves your love. Even if he’s changed, he hasn’t proven that.”

Harry sighed. “All I’m asking is that you give him that chance.” He hesitated, searching for the right words to explain how he felt. “Ginny, please try to understand. So much of my life has been unhappy – and my future is . . . uncertain at best. I can’t really explain what I feel with Draco except that I’m happy and in love and I don’t want it to ever end – but I know, he and I both know – that a lot of things could happen that could end it. Please let me have this now . . . without losing your friendship.”

Ginny looked down, and she looked a little ashamed. “Harry,” she said softly, “you saved my life. I will always be your friend . . . and love you – no matter what happens.” She looked back up, her eyes too shiny, tearful. “But, that’s why I worry too,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to think of you being hurt.”

Harry shifted toward her, put his arm around her. She leaned into him, her head against his chest, one hand coming up to rest lightly on his shoulder. He rested his chin on her head for a moment and tightened his arm around her. “I’ll be fine,” he said and hoped fervently that he was telling the truth.

She nodded, under his chin. “Okay,” she said. She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. She wiped her cheek with the back of one hand, then gave Harry a crooked grin. “Just so you know,” she said with a slight tease in her voice, but with dead seriousness underneath it, “if Malfoy so much as looks at you wrong, every Weasley on the planet will descend on him and exact a swift and terrible vengeance too horrible to describe.”

“I know,” said Harry, smiling at her, but also serious. “I’m counting on it. Now come on – it’s late. I’ll walk you up the stairs.”

* * * * * 

Harry slipped into his dorm room as quietly as he could. The lights were out, which he hoped meant that his roommates were asleep. He tiptoed to his bed, got undressed and slid under the blankets, pulling his curtains closed behind him. Lying on his back, he stared up into the darkness, thinking. He’d slept in this bed for almost seven years, but tonight it felt strange and wrong, like he belonged somewhere else. And he was alone, which felt strange too. His arms felt empty; he missed Draco’s presence, his voice, his touch. With a sigh, he turned on his side, trying to find comfort that wasn’t there, hoping he’d be able to fall asleep.

“Harry?” A soft whisper. There was a gentle rustling sound then, in the dark, and a head popped through the split in the bed curtains. “Harry?”

“Seamus?” Harry sat up, trying to see clearly. “Is that you?”

“Yes,” whispered Seamus, then he was clambering onto Harry’s bed, dragging his quilt, to sit at the end of Harry’s bed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his tone worried. “You and Malfoy didn’t have a fight, did you?”

“No,” said Harry, grinning wryly at his friend’s concern. “Nothing like that.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” This voice came from Ron’s side of Harry’s bed, and a second later, Ron’s head was poking in through the curtains. “Harry? You’re back? Who are you talking to?”

“He’s talking to _me_ , Ron,” said Seamus. “And I’m trying to find out why he’s back.”

“Oh,” said Ron, turning to Harry. “Can I possibly hope that you’ve broken up with Malfoy?”

Harry sighed. “No, I have not broken up with Draco, nor did we have a fight,” he answered. “We are perfectly fine.”

Seamus was grinning. “God, you are so lucky!” he breathed. “Malfoy has to be the sexiest person in this whole school. He’s stunning.” He leaned forward. “What’s he like, Harry . . . you know, in bed?”

“Oh, shut up, Seamus,” hissed Ron. “Anyone would think you liked him that way too.”

“And what if I do?” retorted Seamus. “I’m not planning to make trouble for Harry. I think they’re great together. Nothing but the best for our Harry. Right, Ron?”

Ron groaned. “Malfoy definitely does not fit my definition of the best,” he complained. He came in through the bed curtains and after just a second of hesitation, got under the covers with Harry.

“Er, Ron?” said Harry, surprised. Seamus stifled a giggle.

“What?” said Ron. “It’s cold out there. Look, I figure if you’d fancied me you would have done something about it long before now. Besides, I’m taken.”

“Ha!” snorted Seamus. “If you’ve been taken . . .” He gave a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “. . . then I’m the Queen of England.”

Ron glared at him. “Well, you’re _some_ sort of queen, all right,” he muttered.

“But I’m all Irish, mate,” countered Seamus with an impish grin, “and I’ll thank you not to be forgettin’ it.”

Ron rolled his eyes and turned to Harry. “So why _are_ you back?” he asked.

“That,” said Seamus, “is exactly what I was trying to find out.”

Harry knew there was no way he could get out of telling them what had happened. “I went on Draco’s prefect rounds with him tonight,” he said with another sigh. “And we got caught. McGonagall sent me back here.”

“ _McGonagall_ caught you!” exclaimed Seamus in a loud whisper, one hand pressed to his throat dramatically. “Saints preserve us!”

“Geez, Harry,” chimed in Ron. “Did you get detention?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted unhappily. “She said she would decide in the morning. But there’s more.” He ran one hand through his hair. “She saw us drawing a picture about Filch on the blackboard in her classroom. Now Filch will find out who did that, and he’s going to be furious.”

Seamus whistled softly. “I’m glad I’m not in your shoes, mate,” he said. “Well, not about this anyway.” He grinned again. “Now if we’re talking about being all lovey-dovey with Malfoy, that’s a different story.”

“Gah! Go back to bed, Seamus,” moaned Ron. “Please!”

“I was here first!” protested Seamus.

“Ron. Seamus,” said Harry quietly, but there was tension in his voice, a subtle indication that he was tired and not feeling very patient. He was sure he would not be able to stand it if another argument broke out between them. “I’d like to get some sleep tonight, if I can. So please, _both_ of you, go back to bed.”

“Sure, Harry,” said Seamus, with exaggerated understanding, wiggling his eyebrows again. “I bet you didn’t get much sleep _last_ night . . .” He jumped up suddenly, off the bed, just avoiding Ron’s foot which had shot out under the covers at him, then snickered. “You’re just jealous, mate,” he whispered to Ron. “Now that Harry’s gettin’ more than you.” With a quiet, but amused good night to Harry, he disappeared back to his own bed.

Ron didn’t move, however, except to lean his head back against the headboard and close his eyes. Harry waited, and was just about to say something, when Ron finally spoke. “I was worried,” he said in a very low voice. “You’ve been gone since last night, before dinner.”

Harry drew his knees up and rested his arms across them, his head bent down. “I was fine,” he said, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

“I know,” said Ron. “Hermione told me.” He sighed, his mouth crooked up a little in a reluctant grin. “Boy, did she ever tell me,” he added. Harry smiled and looked up at that, remembering the messages they had given Hermione, and their eyes met. There was a long pause. “Look,” said Ron. “I’m sorry I got so upset the other day. But it’s . . . well . . . Malfoy, you know. That’s a lot to get used to.”

“It’s okay,” said Harry softly, pleased and a little surprised at this admission from Ron. “I haven’t forgotten there are things to be worried about, even if I trust him.”

Ron nodded, willing to be moderately content with that. Silence settled around them for a minute or two, then Neville snored, stirred and turned over. “So,” whispered Ron, after the quiet had reestablished itself, “ _did_ you do it? With him . . . last night?”

Harry groaned inwardly. “You’re as bad as Seamus,” he whispered back.

“No, I’m not,” protested Ron, affront audible in his low voice. “I’m asking because you said you hoped you would, not because I’m going to get off on hearing about it.”

Harry had to laugh at that. “Sorry,” he said. Then he sobered. “No, we didn’t yet,” he answered. He paused, not sure he wanted to go into it any further, since he really had no adequate explanation for Draco’s puzzling behavior. “He . . . wants to wait,” he added finally.

Ron gave him a doubting look. “Wait? For what?” He snorted. “And I thought you said boys were a lot more willing than girls.”

Harry shrugged slightly. “He says it’s because he doesn’t want to push me into anything so fast.” Harry didn’t want to say he suspected there was more to it than Draco was telling him.

Ron thought about that for a while. “I know this isn’t something you want to hear, Harry,” he said, at last. “But maybe he’s stalling because he doesn’t want to – ”

“I know he wants to,” protested Harry. “As much as I do.”

“And he’s just having you on with this relationship – while he’s really plotting something else – ”

“Stop!” whispered Harry irritably. “If there is anything I _am_ sure of,” he stated quietly but firmly, his thoughts filling with memories of the night before, of the stunning, absolute, soul-baring honesty in which their emotions had joined, “it’s that he _does_ love me.” He looked at Ron, half wanting to tell his friend about last night, about the joining magic and the sparks, about how he felt and knew what Draco felt. But he couldn’t. Ron didn’t know he could do healing magic, and it was too personal and well . . . there just weren’t words.

With a pained sigh, Ron slid his feet out from under the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t be so sure, Harry,” he said as he stood up. He turned to look at Harry in the darkness. “But I won’t fight you – or him – about it anymore. I just want you . . . both . . . to be careful.”

Harry took a deep breath, relief and gratitude stirring in him at that. “Thanks,” he said softly. “We will be.”

 _I will be_ , thought Harry, as Ron disappeared back to his own bed. _God, I hope Draco will_.

* * * * * 

Draco lay in his own bed, his thoughts not very different from Harry’s. How was it that in only two nights, he’d become so used to Harry’s presence in his bed that the space now felt far too big, far too empty and much too cold? He’d had a moment of weakness when he’d gotten back to his room and saw that Harry’s things were still there, a moment when he’d almost given in and brought Harry’s cloak from its hook by the door into bed with him.

It was a pathetic, maudlin thing to do, and he didn’t allow it – he’d never get through the next few days if he started being spineless now. Still . . . He turned over and faced away from the room so he couldn’t see the cloak in question, and found himself faced with the empty half of the bed instead. One hand moved, then stopped, then moved again, fingers trailing over the pillow that had been Harry’s, then pulling it against himself. It was a compromise, but he couldn’t help it.

His thoughts drifted back over the events of the previous evening and today. Their time together had gone by so quickly, the time remaining to them much too short now. The Yule Ball was tomorrow, then the next day was the last before he would be on the train back home. And what about tomorrow – what was McGonagall going to say, or Filch? If he ended up with detention, what would Dumbledore do? He gave up thinking he would sleep – too many worries and memories tugged at his mind, too many emotions warred inside his heart.

Flashes of vivid memory raced through his thoughts. First, there was the startling question Harry had asked about the summer – a question that had caught Draco off guard, one he’d had to struggle to answer without disclosing what Lucius had demanded. Luckily, Harry had been distracted by the issue of Draco going home and hadn’t pressed the matter further. 

Harry’s insistent question about why Draco wanted to postpone their lovemaking until the end of the chess game had also made Draco scramble for an answer. He didn’t want to lie to Harry – and he knew with a sharp feeling of regret that he was bordering on being dishonest with Harry even now by giving only these partial explanations, but he couldn’t tell him this. The truth would reveal far too much.

He buried his face in the pillow he held, remembering how desperately he’d wanted to make love with Harry the night before, how he had almost given in, his need becoming so overwhelming that he’d had to ask Harry to put him to sleep – how hard, but how necessary it was to not give in to this, to not make things worse. For Harry’s sake, he had to be strong. And tonight, as much as he hated being alone, and in spite of his anger at McGonagall for interfering and separating him from Harry, he didn’t know if he would have been able to spend another night with Harry without breaking.

_I can’t let that happen._

But something else was happening too, had happened last night when Harry had done the magic. Draco had felt himself in Harry as if Harry was part of himself. And this afternoon, when Harry had accidentally, or instinctively, done the wandless magic that transfigured the snowball, Draco had felt that too. It had made him drained and dizzy for a moment. This was definitely something that they should find out about . . .

 _But there will be no time_ , Draco thought sadly.

The mysterious beauty of the glittery sparks their hands made together was, in and of itself, enough to make Draco desperately sorry that things were certain to end between them. Harry had given Draco so much more than Draco had ever expected, and at the same time, so much less than he wanted. Harry had said ‘I love you’ – had given him that, the wish he had kept secret so long come true at last, this one incredible thing to treasure before it all ended.

Thinking of this, Draco missed Harry intensely – the absence of the arms that had kept him secure, even if that security was fated to be short-lived, the touch that had brought such comfort, now missing, filled him with a deep longing. Harry loved him – and now that this wish had come true, Draco found he had one other wish – that Harry would understand, would forgive him for the thing he had to do. He wrapped his arms tighter around Harry’s pillow, his breathing ragged. But the sleep he craved as respite from his fears eluded him, torn to tattered remnants of fitful drowsiness by his restless thoughts or unraveling in dark, bewildering dreams.

* * * * * 

Draco opened his eyes and all he saw was green. At first, he thought it was the vivid green of his bed curtains surrounding him, as it did sometimes on sunny mornings when the light from the window illuminated the green curtains like stained glass, but as his vision cleared, the shades of green focused finally into a canopy of leaves that arched over him and surrounded him on all sides.

_Forest._

And it was raining. Warm drops of water rolled off the ends of leaves and splashed to the forest floor, warm droplets dripped from his hair onto his shoulders. He tried to raise one hand to wipe the rain from his face and found he couldn’t move. Looking down, his heart pounding, panic rising, he saw that he was on his knees on the forest floor, bare to the waist, stripped of shirt and robe and wand. 

His arms were stretched out at an angle from his sides, vines tightly entwined around his hands and wrists, holding them in place; his feet and lower legs were also bound with vines, pinioning him to the ground, a helpless sacrifice. Muscles tensed, he strained futilely against the living green that held him captive, but finally gave up, dropping his head down, eyes closed, panting with effort and fear.

A sudden rustle in the leaves, a footstep through the trees, made him hold his breath; he lifted his head, raindrops running down his face like tears. A white unicorn dappled in leafy patterns of green light stepped from the forest to stand in front of Draco. Its long white mane fell in wavy wisps, like tendrils of ivy, to its cloven feet.

“Help me,” whispered Draco, his throat dry and aching. He licked his lips and the rain tasted bitterly of salt. The unicorn lowered its head at his words, looked into Draco’s gray, rain-filled eyes. Draco saw that the unicorn’s eyes were green, and that liquid emerald gaze caught him, held him as tightly bound as the forest.

Taking a step forward, the unicorn lowered its head more, the sword-sharp point of its long ivory horn pausing only an inch from Draco’s heart.

_Why should you live?_

The words were softly spoken, mind to mind, but seemed to reverberate through the forest, resonating around and through Draco. The drops of rain turned cold, as the forest echoed with a whispered . . . _why?_

Draco fought against the twisting vines that held his arms, fear closing his throat so he couldn’t speak.

The unicorn thrust its head forward and its horn pierced Draco’s chest. _Think why!_

Draco arched back in agony. The pain was icy fire, searingly cold. Tears ran down his face.

_Why should you live?_

“I don’t know,” he rasped in desperation, while the forest echo whispered . . . _live!_

The horn plunged deeper and Draco screamed.

He struggled, frantic to escape. For a moment, the bed linens were wrapped tightly around him, trapping him, then he sat straight up in the bed, cold sweat pouring from his skin, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, put his head down and didn’t move for a very long time.

* * * * * 

In the morning, Hermione loaned Harry one of her extra bookbags when she found out he’d left his in Draco’s room. She also gave him a toothbrush. “My parents send me new ones all the time,” she assured him, rolling her eyes slightly. “Dentists recommend that you replace your toothbrush every three months,” she quoted by rote. “But my parents can’t seem to remember that I can use a version of the _Reparo_ spell to make my old one like new again, so . . . ” she sighed, “I have several spares.”

And Seamus was happy to loan Harry a comb. “Can’t let Malfoy see you with your hair all mussed from sleeping,” he laughed. “Oh, wait – he’s already seen that!” Harry thumped him on the head and gratefully borrowed the comb.

At breakfast, Harry stared across the long tables, trying to see Draco clearly, wishing Draco would look at him. Unless he was mistaken, Draco was not eating much and looked pale and tired and cross, as if he hadn’t slept. Harry felt another pang of regret that he’d insisted on going with Draco on his prefect rounds, an impulsive act which had resulted in them being separated for the night. If only he’d been with Draco last night – 

Suddenly, Filch burst through the doors of the Great Hall. Heads all over the room looked up to see what was going on. _Oh, God!_ Harry had forgotten about the drawing they had done on the blackboard in McGonagall’s classroom! Filch’s face was purpling in anger, his eyes popping, as he marched down the length of the room, muttering threats. Straight up to the High Table he stomped, straight to Dumbledore.

Harry looked at Draco, and his heart caught in his throat. If possible, Draco appeared even paler, and was watching Filch’s progress through the room with an expression of dread. Harry wanted to sink into the floor. McGonagall had seen them, and if Draco got in trouble with Dumbledore over this, it would all be Harry’s fault.

When Filch reached the table, Harry could hear his furious voice raised in complaint. Words like “shameful” and “vile” and “punishment” leaped out at him, and he looked across the room at Draco, feeling sick. Draco looked positively ill and was watching Filch as one might watch the blade of a guillotine descending upon one’s own neck. Then Professor McGonagall, who was sitting next to the headmaster spoke up. Harry could hear that she was speaking in a very low, severe voice, and though he strained to hear what she was saying, he couldn’t make out the words.

“Doesn’t look good, does it,” whispered Ron on his left.

“No,” said Harry, slumping down to wait for the inevitable. Draco, too, he saw, had stopped watching the staff table and was staring disconsolately at his plate. Harry wanted desperately to go sit with him.

Just then, Filch growled loudly and turned away from the High Table. He paused for a moment to cast an evil eye over the room full of students before storming out the way he had come. Harry saw Dumbledore and McGonagall talking closely together, and then realized their expressions didn’t seem right. McGonagall looked perplexed, and Dumbledore . . . was he . . . smiling?

Harry watched them, but still couldn’t hear anything to give him a clue what was going on. Then Dumbledore got up and left and after a moment or two, Professor McGonagall stood up too. She looked right at Harry and signaled him to come talk to her. Harry exchanged a quick, hopeless look with Ron, and went to meet her.

* * * * * 

Minerva McGonagall was just about to speak to the headmaster, having decided she should let him finish his tea before she revealed the scandalous events she had witnessed the night before, when Argus Filch burst into the Great Hall. The grizzled caretaker stumped up to the staff table, muttering to himself, his eyes bulging with fury.

“An outrage, that’s what it is!” he seethed, jowls quivering, barely managing to keep his angry voice down so that the students behind him wouldn’t hear. “There’s a drawing about me and Mrs. Norris . . .” he snarled, stabbing a finger at Professor McGonagall, “. . . on the blackboard in _her_ classroom. It’s shameful!” His face was nearly purple.

McGonagall suddenly realized that she had been so completely taken aback by seeing how Potter and Malfoy were acting together that she had scarcely paid any attention to what they had been drawing on the board. She thought back, trying to remember, and then had to fight to school her features to remain stern-faced as a brief memory of a heart and a ridiculous cat face came back to her.

“Now, now, Argus,” Dumbledore was saying. “Surely no one has seen it yet.” His mustache twitched a little. “You _have_ erased it, haven’t you?”

“Of _course_ I erased it,” hissed Filch.

“There,” said Dumbledore, soothingly. “You see, no harm’s been done.”

“That’s not the point!” argued Filch. “They’re a vile, cheeky lot – every one of ‘em! In the _old_ days, I could have taught ‘em a lesson. Given a proper punishment.” He leaned over the table, one corner of his mouth drawn up to reveal his nasty teeth. “I still have those chains in my office . . .”

McGonagall cleared her throat. “I should interrupt here,” she said. “I caught the boys who did it last night.”

Filch turned to her and grinned evilly. “Who was it, eh?”

“You will be glad to know that the guilty parties . . .” She paused and looked out in the Great Hall to see that both Potter and Malfoy were watching, their faces worried and miserable. She remembered the stricken look they had exchanged when she had made them separate. “. . . have already been punished,” she finished.

Filch scowled and started to protest, but Dumbledore held up one hand, his voice taking a firmer tone. “We will let the matter drop, Argus. It was Professor McGonagall’s classroom and she has dealt with the problem.”

With a growl and a lip curled in grudging deference, Filch nodded at the headmaster, muttered something more about the old punishments and marched back out of the Great Hall.

Dumbledore turned to McGonagall. “And who were our late night artists, Minerva?” he said, keeping his voice low.

“It was Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy . . . _together_ ,” she said, her amazement at this startling fact clear even though she spoke very quietly. “But Albus,” she continued in an undertone, “I don’t know when I’ve been more shocked. Not only were they together, when I caught them in my classroom last night, they were kissing!”

“Kissing,” repeated Dumbledore, looking over the rims of his glasses with amusement twinkling in his eyes. “I assume from your startled tone that you mean . . . kissing each other?”

“Yes!” whispered McGonagall loudly. “And young Potter stated to me that he was sure you knew about it.” She looked back at him reproachfully.

“Kissing. Oh, my stars. Now that is _quite_ surprising,” he said, while somehow managing not to seem surprised at all. “I assure you, I knew nothing about it.” Then his eyebrows went up and he raised one finger in the air, hesitating a second before speaking. “Although . . . perhaps Severus did mention something similar to me a few days ago – it quite slipped my mind. But then again, Fawkes suspected something all along . . . amazing birds, phoenixes.” He drifted off into contemplation, stroking his beard.

“I don’t understand,” persisted McGonagall. “They were fighting each other in the hall just last week. And now . . . are you telling me that Severus caught them kissing days ago . . . and Fawkes knew about it!?”

“Fighting? Oh, you mean the game that looked like a fight,” said Dumbledore, picking up his teacup and finding it sadly empty, set it down again. “I don’t remember the details, but I do remember it was delightfully funny at the time.” He pushed his chair back and stood up, ready to leave. But then he smiled down at McGonagall, merriment dancing in his eyes. “Fawkes suspected a great deal more than kissing, my dear Minerva,” he said, as he walked away from the table. “But we shall see . . .”

“What!?” gasped Professor McGonagall after a moment of mute astonishment, but it was too late. Dumbledore was already too far away to have heard. She watched the headmaster walk out of the Great Hall, then turned to look at the Gryffindor table. Potter, she saw, was watching her intently, a look of apprehension on his face. She sighed and rose from the table. She straightened her tall pointed hat and drew herself up into a more dignified bearing than she felt, then motioned for him to come speak to her.

She stepped away from the other tables so no one would overhear the conversation and waited for Potter to join her. His worried face reminded her of their conversation last night, and because of that, she knew he wasn’t worried for himself. In fact, she had been reluctantly impressed with Potter’s offer to accept all the blame and absolve Malfoy from any punishment. She had also found herself unaccountably touched by their goodbyes, though she hadn’t meant to watch. These things had softened her disapproval, and although the boys had been disrespectful, Albus had been right. No real harm had been done, and she had decided to be lenient.

“Mr. Potter,” she said in a low, firm voice, when he arrived, “I have decided not to give you and Mr. Malfoy detention – this time.” Harry’s anxious expression turned to a smile of relief and she saw him glance across the room toward the Slytherin table. “However,” she warned seriously, “I expect a solemn promise from you that there will be no repetition, or I will reconsider.”

“It won’t happen again,” said Harry. “I promise. Thank you, Professor.”

McGonagall gazed at Harry’s earnest young face and couldn’t help voicing her concerns. “Potter,” she said, her tone softer but still distressed. “You must know that I cannot approve of this . . . relationship you’ve formed with Draco Malfoy. You are putting yourself in a situation that could be very dangerous. I urge you to exercise the utmost caution.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry seriously. “But I’m a lot more worried about Draco. I don’t think he should be allowed to go home over Christmas.”

“I’m afraid you may be right, but we can’t keep students here over the holidays against their wishes. You’ll have to convince him to stay voluntarily.”

“I’m trying to,” said Harry with a sigh. “He insists he has to go.”

McGonagall put her hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Under the circumstances, that may indeed be foolish.” She paused. “But we will hope for the best,” she said. “And don’t _you_ do anything foolish, too,” she added, giving him a stern but affectionate look before she walked away toward the doors of the Great Hall.

* * * * * 

Harry went slowly back to his seat. He caught Draco’s intensely questioning gaze and gave him a small smile, shaking his head slightly to say they hadn’t gotten detention. Draco’s eyebrows went up, but his tight, anxious expression relaxed, and some of the color came back to his face.

Harry just had time to sit back down in his seat and whisper to Ron that they were not in trouble, when a large barn owl swooped in overhead and dropped a small package in his lap. Turning it over, Harry found the words – The Polished Stone, Hogsmeade – stamped on the top. He looked up at Draco, held the package up where he could see it and grinned. And for the first time that morning, Draco smiled back.

* * * * * 

Harry dashed back to his dorm after breakfast to put Draco’s present safely in his room before classes started. By the time he got back down to the dungeons for Potions class, he was almost late, but Draco was waiting for him in the corridor, leaning against the wall. Close up, even though Draco looked better than he had at breakfast, Harry thought he still seemed tired. Another pang of regret that he hadn’t been with Draco last night washed over him. “You okay?” he asked quietly. “How did you sleep?”

“I didn’t,” said Draco, but dismissed that with a gesture, laying his hand on Harry’s arm. “What did McGonagall say?” he asked softly, urgently. “Did we really not get detention?”

“No,” said Harry. “She didn’t say much, but we don’t have detention, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t tell Filch we did the picture on the board.”

Draco sighed with relief. He leaned back against the wall and then tilted his head a little, eyeing Harry appraisingly. “Maybe you _would_ have made a good Slytherin,” he said with a slight smile. “I don’t know anyone who can get in more trouble and then manage to slither out of it better than you.”

Harry gave him a wry grin, then turned his head to see Professor Snape just coming around the corner at the end of the corridor. “Speaking of trouble,” he said.

Any kissing was out of the question, but Draco gave Harry’s arm a squeeze. “Your Firebolt is still in my room, but I brought your other stuff down,” he said, as they hurried into the classroom. This time Snape was not so close behind them, and Harry had plenty of time to get to his seat. There was an air of excitement in the snatches of conversation he overheard as he passed through the room. Everyone was talking about the Yule Ball, and he found suddenly that he was excited too. He and Draco were going to make quite a stir tonight.

When he got to his seat, he found his own bookbag there, the edge of a note sticking out of the side pocket.

 _Come early tonight,_ it read, in Draco’s slanting, elegant script. _I want to give you your Christmas present before we go to the Yule Ball._

Harry’s heart quickened. _The ring!_ he thought, wondering if he was right about that, sure that he was, and wondering too, how it would feel to wear it, what it would mean. He sat down quickly, hiding the smile he couldn’t contain by digging his potions stuff out of Hermione’s bookbag. This also kept him from actually seeing Snape sweep into the room, though the sudden hush announced the professor as certainly as lightening before a storm.

He looked up to find Snape scowling at him and gulped, his smile disappearing in a flash.

“It has been decided,” said Snape in his quiet, acidic tone, “that your afternoon classes will all be shortened so that everyone can get ready for the Yule Ball.” He glared around the room, his black eyes glittering with disapproval. “To make up for this foolishness,” he said with a sneer, “there will be a practical exam this morning.” Soft groans filled the room. “Get out your books and turn to page two-hundred and fifty-six.”

Harry groaned along with everyone else, though inwardly he was slightly amused – Draco had been right about the test. He opened his book, hoping fervently that Draco would also be right about the potion they had to do. When he found page 256, he breathed a small sigh of relief. It was, indeed, the Hex Mirror Potion, a difficult concoction to brew, but at least he had practiced it. Draco glanced back at him, one eyebrow raised as if to say, “I told you so.”

Harry was partnered with Dean, who sat behind Neville, so Harry moved up and was therefore only a seat away from Draco. Draco was looking miffed and disgusted, having been paired with Pansy. Hermione was paired with Parvati, because Snape, believing she would want to be partnered with Ron, made sure to split them up. However, Hermione had long ago declared she would never work with Ron on potions no matter how much she loved him, and this suited her just fine. That left Ron to be partnered with Seamus, and Neville with Lavender.

Dean was a good partner, and he and Harry, along with everyone else, fell to work cutting up all the ingredients, since they all had to be ready before starting. Draco, Harry saw, was angrily cutting up foxglove flowers, in much the same way Harry had the night they’d made the potion in Draco’s room. Dean worked carefully, without talking much, so Harry clearly heard Pansy’s furious whisper a few minutes later.

“Who is she, Draco?”

Harry paused, shocked for a second, his knife hanging over the sting of a dried Billiwig, but had to choke down a snicker when he saw Draco’s eyebrow go up as if to imply Pansy was an escaped mental patient.

“Don’t look at _me_ like that,” she hissed. “I know you had a girl in your room night before last. I saw Granger coming down the stairs and she told me you wouldn’t want to be disturbed – that you had company. And that you _weren’t_ studying.”

“So what?” replied Draco with an air of disinterest that Harry could tell was only a thin veneer over a rising tide of irritation.

“ _So_ ,” said Pansy, as if playing a winning Exploding Snap card, “after she left, I set an alarm ward on the stairs outside your door, and no one left your room _all_ night that night, or _all_ day yesterday until late in the evening. And then there were two of you, and only you came back! _So_ I want to _know_ ,” her voice though a whisper was almost shrill, “who is she?”

Harry dared to glance over at Draco and saw him give Pansy a black, outraged look. The veneer was definitely slipping.

“That’s just like you,” Draco whispered back, “to do something so low and sneaky.” Then he snorted and shrugged as if he didn’t care. “Who I have in my room, or for how long, is none of your business,” he said coldly, turning back to his cutting.

“And you told me you _weren’t_ going to the Yule Ball.” Pansy’s voice quivered slightly at the end of this sentence, though she was trying hard to sound accusing. “ _Are_ you?”

Draco frowned at her. “I never said I wasn’t going,” he declared in a low, derisive tone. “I said I wasn’t going with _you_.”

“Well,” she said huffily, but Harry still heard the quiver in her voice, “it’s a good thing you didn’t think you were going with me. _I’m_ going with Blaise.”

Harry bit down on his bottom lip to keep from grinning, though he did feel rather sorry for Pansy. But Draco’s expression, a combination of relief, exasperation, and an oh-God-please spare-me-this roll of his eyes to the ceiling, had been priceless.

“I’m thrilled for you, Pansy,” said Draco, his tone laced with sarcasm. “Now if you don’t mind, you’re cutting that Murtlap growth all wrong.”

Pansy stabbed the knifepoint down hard into the tentacled mass on the table in front of her so that it stuck straight up and stayed there. “Do it yourself, then,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Snape had been walking up and down the rows of students, and happened to come to Pansy and Draco just then. “Miss Parkinson,” he drawled disdainfully, “let me remind you that I am well aware that Mr. Malfoy can do this potion without your help. You, however, need all the help you can get. I suggest you get back to work before you find yourself scrubbing out burnt cauldrons tonight instead of going to the Yule Ball.”

Eyes widening in horror at that prospect, Pansy jerked the knife out of the Murtlap growth and, without another word, resumed cutting, her continued frustration showing itself in intermittent wounded, reproachful glances that Draco ignored.

Harry, for half a second, was surprised that Snape had taken such a hard line with one of the Slytherins, but then Snape was standing right behind him inspecting the neat piles of chopped ingredients he and Dean had laid out on the table, and he had more immediate things to worry about. “Those mushroom gills are too coarse, Potter,” Snape nitpicked, contemptuously poking at them with the point of his wand. “Do them over.” There would be no mercy, Harry realized, for any of them that day. And he heard no more talk, except what was necessary to do the potion, from Draco and Pansy.

The class worked on, Snape’s acerbic comments punctuating the students’ whispered conversations with barbed criticisms and snide threats. Near the back of the room, however, another conversation was just starting up – one that would have disastrous results.

Ron and Seamus hadn’t talked much – Ron was irritated somewhat that Seamus seemed to be more interested in watching Harry and Draco than in working on the potion, although he was doing a passable job, his cutting work as good as Ron’s. It was the grinning that was getting on Ron’s nerves. Sitting as they were, within hearing range of several of the girls, the conversation around them had been mostly about the Yule Ball – robe colors, hair-setting spells, and giggling over dates.

“Are you going?” Ron asked Seamus finally. They had almost reached the stage of the potion-making where the three liquid ingredients had to be added at exactly the same time.

“Of course,” said Seamus with another annoying grin. “Didn’t you know? Ginny asked me last week when we were going over our Herbology notes together.”

“She what!?” choked out Ron. “My sister? Is going with _you_?” He stared at Seamus. “But you’re . . . I thought . . .”

“That because I’ve had a crush on Malfoy, that I don’t like girls?” supplied Seamus, with a taunting eyebrow wiggle. “And why would I be limiting my options like that, mate?”

Ron felt his face go beet red. “My sister is not a . . . a . . . bloody option!”

Seamus shrugged. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Ronnie-kins.” He grinned again. “Ginny calls you that, you know.”

“I know!” Ron had given up all pretense of working on the potion. “I never said _you_ could call me that!”

“Mr. Weasley!” Snape’s sudden, sharp voice cut through Ron’s anger like a razor through a flobberworm. “Is there a problem here? Mr. Finnigan?”

“No, sir,” they both assured him, and hurriedly finished cutting the last of the ingredients they were working on. They went on in relative silence for a minute, Seamus grinning infuriatingly and Ron seething.

“Wonder if Harry is really going to the Yule Ball with that Slytherin girl,” said Seamus idly, “or if that was all made up?”

Ron turned to Seamus, for a moment completely forgetting the situation with Ginny. “He said _she_ asked him. We saw them talking. I don’t think Harry would make that up.”

“Hmm,” said Seamus, evidently not entirely convinced. They picked up the three vials of liquids they had measured out. Seamus held two, and Ron had the third and the stirring rod, their hands poised over the cauldron. “He said at dinner, though, remember, that he was planning to take both of them – the Slytherin girl and the person we thought was the girl he was seeing. But the person he was seeing turned out to be Malfoy.” Seamus looked up suddenly at Ron, a huge, inspired grin on his face. “Aha! I bet he’s going to show up tonight with Malfoy _and_ that girl!”

“He wouldn’t!” asserted Ron, aghast.

“I bet he does!” laughed Seamus. “Pour.” Seamus tipped the two vials he held, spilling strangling ivy sap and flobberworm mucus into the cauldron. “Ron! Pour!” repeated Seamus urgently.

“He can’t!” Ron was still holding the armadillo bile, looking shocked. A heartbeat later he realized what Seamus had said and panicked, dumping the bile in, but forgetting to stir it.

Seamus took one look at the swelling potion and turned to Ron, horrified. “Mother of God, Ron! Get down!” He gave Ron a shove, dropping to the floor himself to hide under the table. But Ron was too slow. With a sickening belch, the potion exploded, splattering fat globs of greenish muck all over Ron.

“Arrgh! yelled Ron, jumping up.

Snape was there almost instantly, though he seemed not to have troubled himself to hurry. With a wave of his wand he cleaned up the smoking goo, and fixed Ron with an icy, utterly scornful glare. “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley . . . for being too dumb to duck.” He eyed the destroyed potion with distaste. “And a zero on this assignment,” he added sourly.

Titters of laughter broke out on the Slytherin side of the room, but before Ron could even sink into his seat in shame, there was another explosion. Snape, giving the great longsuffering sigh of one who must bear a bitter and undeserved affliction, went to spell the potion off of Crabbe and Goyle.

The rest of the class managed to complete the potion more or less successfully. At least no one else’s exploded. As soon as class was dismissed, Harry and Hermione rushed back to see Ron, who insisted he was fine, though there were a couple of mild burns on his face and hands and singe marks in his red hair, and he was looking daggers at Seamus. Harry went back to his own seat to gather up his things – he had two bookbags now to carry – and turned around to look for Draco.

Draco was standing just inside the door, waiting. When he caught Harry’s eye, he raised one eyebrow in a question. Harry lifted the note, and nodded. Draco nodded back and slipped out the door.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Afternoon classes, as Snape had said, were shortened so everyone could get ready for the Yule Ball. Hermione insisted that Ron go be treated for the potion burns, and though he protested, she won the argument at last and the two of them went off to the hospital wing. An end of term party was going on in the Gryffindor common room, but Harry only stayed a few minutes, then went upstairs so he could have some moments alone before the flurry of his roommates’ preparations and comments filled their room. He wanted to shower and pack, hoping that he’d be able to spend the night with Draco again, but not wanting to put himself in the awkward position he’d been in the day before by showering in Draco’s room. And, most important of all, he wanted to wrap Draco’s Christmas present to give to him tonight.

He hadn’t had time that morning to unpack it and look at it, but he did so now, sitting on the side of his bed, ripping off the tan-colored parcel paper and opening the box inside. Within that box, nestled in shredded paper, lay a smaller dark blue velvet box that Harry lifted carefully out and opened.

The pendant rested on a lining of white satin, and Harry stared at it for some time, caught up in the loveliness of the curling filigree silver wire settings that held the pale gray-blue gemstone he’d chosen and the clear crystal point that was perfectly shaped to match his scar. It was simply elegant, a work of excellent craftsmanship. Harry was very pleased and excited, anticipation bubbling up as he imagined Draco seeing it for the first time. He closed the lid of the little box, and stroking the soft velvet, decided not to wrap it. It was beautiful as it was.

Neville and Dean came up, Seamus following soon after. But Harry was nearly ready by then. Seamus didn’t tease Harry – the main thing Harry had wanted to avoid – but instead only grinned at him and winked and said, “See you tonight, Harry! You and the _girls_.” But there was a knowing look in Seamus’ eye that made Harry suspect that Seamus knew exactly who Harry would be going with tonight. He didn’t see Ron at all before he left, but walked out as the last stragglers from the party in the common room were coming up the stairs.

Stepping through the portrait hole, he found himself alone in the corridor and for a moment stood still, feeling poised on the edge of something he couldn’t define. There were so many exhilarating possibilities tonight – that Draco might give him a ring, that they might end the chess game and so also end the waiting that Draco had imposed on their lovemaking.

At the very least, going to the Yule Ball together, even if it appeared that they had dates, would announce to the entire school that the enmity and rivalry was over between them. It was a night of impending changes. Harry put on the Invisibility Cloak and set off toward the Slytherin tower and Draco with a grin, full of anticipation, ready and excited to face them all.


	13. Part II — The Game — Chapter 13

  


_Don’t you know that time is not my friend_  
 _I’ll fight it to the end_  
 _Hoping to keep that best of moments_  
 _When the passions start_

_Heaven help my heart_

Lyrics from “Heaven Help My Heart” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

A flurry of thoughts and emotions swirled through Harry’s mind as he hurried quietly down the myriad shifting staircases that led from the Gryffindor tower toward the entrance hall. Last night, after Ron and Seamus had finally left him alone, these same thoughts had kept him awake. For one thing, he’d given serious thought to Draco’s question – the one he hadn’t really answered – the one about marriage and children.

With the war, and the personal threat of defeating Voldemort hanging over him, thinking about such things might have seemed pointless and self-indulgent, yet Harry had once had hopes for a future. If there could be a future for him, if he survived, that imagined future had included a family. His imagined partner had once worn Cho’s face; the children he had hoped for had been hers. But that future had suddenly been snuffed out at the beginning of last summer like a candle abruptly dropped and drowned in a well of dark water, and Harry had been left with nothing, with no hopes at all. Until now.

That bleak, empty, lonely future which had followed in the wake of Cho’s leaving was filling up again with the possibility of love and partnership, and though Harry was much more cautious now, knowing how uncertain it was that this new future might come true, he had found a starting place for hope again. Hope, this time, had been discovered unexpectedly, looking back at him through silver-gray eyes. It was this new hope that had given wings to his imagination last night and had inspired plans – perhaps even for having a family – that he was anxious to talk to Draco about tonight.

There were other important things he wanted to talk to Draco about too, but because he hadn’t been able to stay with Draco the night before, they hadn’t had a chance. In fact, Draco was the only one he _could_ talk to about most of the things that were happening in his life right now. They needed to find out what was happening to them with their magical auras; particularly, Harry wanted to know how he had unintentionally transfigured that snowball without even casting a spell. He also still hoped he could convince Draco not to leave.

_And_ there was a chess game to finish.

The chess game was starting to become something of a mild annoyance to Harry. In the beginning, it had been a much-needed catalyst for the relationship they were building, and Harry acknowledged with pride how clever Draco had been to devise it. It had made them talk, had made them open themselves to each other, taking turns at being vulnerable, trading opportunities to ask or reveal the things they most wanted to know. Given their history, such a game could have become nasty very quickly, perhaps even violent, but Draco had taken a chance, and Harry could not help but admire him for it.

Still, it seemed unnecessary now, a framework they had outgrown, and especially since Draco had started using it to delay a physical relationship between them, Harry was tired of it. He wanted it to be finished.

On the other hand, he was not going to try to push Draco into that physical relationship either. That was something else he had decided last night – even if he didn’t completely understand. If Draco needed more time, then Harry was sure Draco must have his reasons, and he was determined to respect that. He’d told Draco several times that he could wait – the relationship meant far more to him than getting sex, and tonight he was going to make every effort to prove he could keep his word. He grinned a little to himself. The way he felt around Draco was not going to make that easy.

All through the day, today, he’d had moments when he’d missed Draco intensely, an abrupt almost-pain that clutched his heart and threatened to leave an empty, longing ache behind. Yet, each time, as his thoughts had focused on Draco, that feeling had resolved into something very different, something that spoke to him in the words of Draco’s soft, low voice on a window ledge in the dark snowy night, something like what he’d felt when they’d flown together and his heart had been full of sunlight and cold wind and ready to burst from the joy of it, something that filled up that empty longing to the brim and made him smile. In those moments, he felt as if Draco was right there with him, so close, so connected, that he could imagine he felt the echo of a second heartbeat pulsing with his own.

Then there had been other moments. Moments when his questions had taken hold, when his doubts and fears and insecurities had brought a different reality into focus. Draco was still determined to go home, and Harry couldn’t quite shake the impression that Draco wasn’t telling him something. The future was clearly not as simple as that whispered _I love you_.

The hallways and stairs were practically deserted as Harry, lost in thought, hurried along. Everyone was getting ready for the Yule Ball, and though he felt a great deal of excitement for the night ahead, by the time he got down to the entrance hall, some of his anticipation had turned to nervousness. He had to wait for a while at the bottom of the main stairs while Hagrid and Professor Flitwick maneuvered a giant Christmas tree into the Great Hall, one of many that would decorate the Hall tonight. Harry, momentarily distracted from his thoughts, grinned as the tiny professor, arms raised and wand swishing over his head, levitated the huge tree. Hagrid, gripping the trunk end, steered the great floating evergreen through the doors.

But climbing the spiral stairs in the Slytherin tower, Harry’s nervous questions came back. What if Draco didn’t give him a ring after all . . . and the pendant was too much, too personal? What if Draco didn’t like it? _God_ , he thought, _it has my scar on it_. It seemed silly now that he’d thought it would be a good gift. _Why on earth would Draco want to wear something that looks like my scar?_

Harry came to the top of the stairs and faced Draco’s door with all his anticipation and questions tumbling over each other, unresolved. He took a deep breath, then smiled. Even with all the questions he had, he wanted more than anything to be back here with Draco. That something that was wild and exhilarating and happy took over his heart again and he knocked.

* * * * * 

Draco was sitting in his room, curled in the armchair that faced the door, staring into the fire, his body tense and tightly strung. He was dressed in a plain white undershirt and the black trousers that went with the dress robes he’d picked out for himself and Harry. He’d already duplicated the robes for Harry to wear and had laid them out on the bed. The ring had been taken out of the potion and was now cradled inside the elegant black plush box he’d purchased in Hogsmeade; the potion had been disposed of, the jar washed and replaced in his Potions kit. Everything was ready, had been ready for ages it seemed, and Harry hadn’t arrived yet.

Harry, of course, had been on his mind all day, and waiting through this long afternoon had made Draco nervous and tense. At times, when he’d thought of Harry, he’d felt as though, if he closed his eyes, he could believe Harry was right here with him, the sensation of the other boy’s presence was so strong. The reassurance of that lasted a moment or two, but Draco’s impatience quickly reasserted itself. There was so little time left. He wanted Harry here now. Not even sitting in the window calmed him – looking out at the Quidditch pitch only reminded him of Harry. He’d tried reading while he waited, but wasn’t able to concentrate, and the book now lay discarded on the table next to the chessboard.

Thoughts from the night before came back to him now, and the jagged, fragmentary recollections of a dream, like broken bottle-glass, green and sharp, but incomplete, teased at the fringes of his memory. Last night, he’d sat up for what seemed like hours after that dream, the pounding of his heart loud in his ears, but even then he had only remembered slivers of it. 

And sitting awake, alone in the dark, wishing desperately for the comfort of Harry’s voice and touch, doubts had crept out from the corners of his mind. Questions he’d thought he’d answered irrevocably whispered to him to reconsider. _What if he stayed at Hogwarts and just didn’t go through with his plan – what would happen then?_

Clutching Harry’s pillow, he’d tried not to listen to those impossible whispers about the future. He thought about the past instead and let himself relive the flying, the sunset and Harry’s heart-stopping words. And then, perhaps because he was so tired, and needed Harry’s touch so much, he allowed himself to imagine what could have happened if Harry had spent the night and they had made love. Release by his own hand was not what he wanted – he wanted Harry – but imagination could be consoling in its own way, and it did give him some comfort, at least enough to finally fall asleep.

But the doubts that had surfaced last night were still with him this afternoon as he waited for Harry; the fears he’d tried so hard to banish came back to him now, and when the soft knock came at last, he’d fallen so deep in thought, he was momentarily startled. And when he opened the door and no one was there, for a second he thought Pansy had played a trick on him.

But then suddenly the door was pulled from his grasp and quickly closed, and he found himself enveloped in a slithery fabric hug. His arms went around this invisible hugger and he closed his eyes, feeling his pent-up tension melt away into the comfort of Harry’s touch like ice under the caress of a warm spring rain. Then he wanted to see, wanted to kiss, and his hands were pulling at the Invisibility Cloak, desperate that there not be anything between them.

Draco felt Harry step away from him slightly, and in another second, Harry, grinning and tousle-haired, had the cloak off. He tossed it haphazardly onto the chair nearby, quickly shrugged off his bookbag and dropped that on the floor just inside the door, and then Draco had hold of him again, opening his mouth to Harry’s eager kisses, pressing himself tightly into Harry’s embrace.

“I missed you,” whispered Harry between kisses.

“Missed you too,” whispered Draco back, his heart going all to pieces with elation at Harry’s words. This was real – being with Harry was no longer just a far-fetched dream possible only in his imagination – and oh God, he wanted this. He kissed Harry, one more long, lingering kiss, then drew back a little to look in Harry’s eyes.

The green eyes were shining, beautiful and inviting, tempting him to go so much further than this kiss, yet all Draco had to do was to think of those eyes as he had seen them that first night in the corridor, desolate and filled with tears, to remember not to go too far. But it hurt to stop. He pulled away gently, saw the flicker of disappointment in those eyes, and that hurt too. “We should get dressed,” he said, slightly breathless, his voice low. He stepped back, letting go, but Harry caught his wrist, and held him a moment.

“We have to talk,” said Harry softly. “I thought about a lot of things last night . . . things I need to tell you.”

Draco nodded. “Tonight,” he said, “when we get back.” Then he felt a second of uncertainty. “You will come back?” he asked. “To stay with me tonight?”

“I’d planned to,” said Harry, tilting his head at the bookbag by the door. “If you wanted me  
to . . .”

There was so much hope and longing in Harry’s voice . . . there were just some things that Draco couldn’t resist, and he was suddenly back in Harry’s arms, holding on tightly. With everyone else, he could easily preserve a cool distance, keeping the walls up, the barriers intact. But not with Harry. One look from those eyes, a certain soft tone of voice, and things inside him came undone, knots slipped loose, pretense failed.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said, “. . . without you.”

“It’s okay,” said Harry, rubbing his back. “I’ll be here tonight. I’ll help you sleep.”

Draco turned his face in, against the side of Harry’s head, his eyes closed. He didn’t want to fight this anymore. The thoughts he’d had last night had brought him to a precipice of indecision, and he skirted the edge of it now, again. Harry’s hands were solid against his back, soothing and stirring both at once; how could he give up even so simple a thing as that. Harry’s body felt so perfect and right . . . and Harry loved him. It was everything he’d wanted . . . everything he’d waited for. He could change his mind. He could give in . . . 

Without a word, but with a wrench of his heart, Draco pulled away from Harry, took his hand and led him to the bed. He didn’t trust himself to speak, for if he did, it would surely be to tell Harry to sod the whole Yule Ball altogether and – 

“Which one is mine?” asked Harry, seeing the dress robes laid out.

“That one.”

Harry gave him a chagrined look as he started taking off his shirt. “You would pick a robe with so many bloody buttons,” he teased. “It’s going to take me an hour to get this on.” Then he smiled. “But we _are_ going to look stunning tonight.”

And the moment of indecision passed – the reality of Harry’s presence, his voice and smile, carried Draco past that cusp of uncertainty. He laughed lightly at Harry’s last comment and felt his already chosen path settle solidly under his feet once more. His father had brought him inexorably to this, had shaped Draco’s future with his unrelenting demands, and in response, Draco had made his choice.

It was, perhaps, a choice forced to the point where one might consider it no choice at all, but rather simply the inevitable outcome of uncontrollable circumstances, the only possible thing he could do given who he was and how he felt. The turning in the road was far behind him, the path laid out quite clearly ahead. There was something he just had to do; pain was woven tightly in it, but he had already accepted that and could still go forward, determined again.

He smiled back at Harry, wanting to cling to every one of these final minutes and slow time so that each moment might be savored. “Don’t take too long,” he warned, “or I won’t have time to give you your Christmas present.”

Harry hurried, and soon they were both dressed and ready to go, each admiring the other with smiles and affectionate glances. While Harry shrunk the Invisibility Cloak so that it fit in his pocket, Draco went to his desk and opened a drawer, then came to stand by Harry at the table in front of the fire. The small black plush box was in his hands. He nodded at the chessboard. “You have a piece to move,” he said, “before I can take my turn.”

“Oh, right,” said Harry, suddenly nervous again, and excited. He moved his Knight to B4, the move he had made when they had been out in the snow. Then memory caught him as he looked up and met Draco’s gaze, saw the firelight reflected on his face, in his brilliant gray eyes. That very first night he’d come to Draco’s room, they had stood just here, together like this, before Harry had kissed him for the first time. And yesterday, flying high over a sunset-painted twilight world, Harry had said words that he hoped would mean his future. He felt breathless again, as he had during that wild and reckless flight, watching Draco now, as Draco reached out to pick up his King.

“King to F1,” said Draco, moving the King diagonally back one space to the right. He looked up at Harry, blond hair spilling down over his forehead, his eyes revealing that rare, endearing shyness. “I didn’t wrap the box,” he said softly, as he held it out. “Since you’d already seen it  
. . .”

Harry took it in slightly trembling hands. Was it . . . ? He opened the lid and saw a small, intricately wrought silver dragon tucked into the red satin lining. Ruby eyes winked in the firelight as he picked it up, and he discovered that he’d been right all along. It _was_ a ring! Harry turned it around, awed by the detailing. “It’s lovely, Draco,” he managed to say. It was really so much more than lovely. “It’s amazing.”

Draco stepped closer. “It’s one of my favorite things,” he said. “I wanted you to have it.” He reached out and gently took the ring. “You shouldn’t wear it on your wand hand,” he said, taking Harry’s left hand and slipping it onto his fourth finger.

Harry felt the ring shiver and stir on his finger, adjusting itself magically to a comfortable fit. He looked down in wonder at the little silver dragon that now delicately encircled his finger. It was undoubtedly a Malfoy treasure. He looked back up at Draco, quite awed and rather tongue-tied.

“It’s a dragon with red Gryffindor eyes,” said Draco. “I wanted it to mean that we . . . belong together.”

Harry leaned in and kissed Draco, his heart turning over. “We do,” he whispered.

Draco smiled, the kind of smile that always made Harry a little weak in the knees. “It’s your turn,” he said.

Harry straightened his glasses, and took a minute to study the position of his pieces and the move Draco had just made. Draco hadn’t had a lot of options for his last move; Harry was progressively tightening the threat to Draco’s King on one side, and predictably, Draco had moved his King away toward the only possible escape. But that didn’t matter – Harry’s strategy was to press Draco’s King hard on the one side now, get Draco to run from it and then catch him on the other side. He almost had everything in place – and judging from Draco’s last move, it looked like Draco was going to fall right in with this plan. The game couldn’t last much longer. And Harry was becoming increasingly confident he was going to win it.

Looking up from the board, Harry couldn’t quite hide his excitement. “Bishop to D3,” he said, moving his piece and capturing Draco’s Bishop. Grinning at Draco, he set Draco’s Bishop off the board and announced, “Check.” Then his exultation changed partly back to his earlier nervousness as he met Draco’s expectant eyes and remembered what he was going to do with this move. “I have something to give you, too,” he said, his words coming out a bit shaky. Oh, God, he hoped Draco would like it. He retrieved his bookbag from the doorway where he’d dropped it coming in, and pulled out the blue velvet box.

“I didn’t wrap mine either,” he said. “I thought the box was too pretty to cover up.”

“It is,” said Draco, taking the box from Harry and admiring the deep blue velvet. He felt his face go warm. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but whatever it was, it was a gift from Harry and it was going to mean the world to him. Then he opened the box and caught his breath, completely astonished.

Lifting the pendant carefully from its box, Draco let it lie in the palm of his hand. The silver picked up warm glints from the fire; amber highlights shimmered over the pale, polished surfaces, rosy sparks flared through the clear crystal and the cool, smoky-blue gemstone. Draco gazed at the pendant for a long, long moment, then without a word, looked up at Harry and lifted his other hand to brush back the hair from Harry’s forehead. He studied Harry’s scar for a moment more, before dropping his gaze to meet Harry’s anxious green eyes with eyes that had gone a misty, velvet gray.

“You _found_ this . . . at that jewelry shop?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” said Harry. “I had them make it.” He paused, blushing slightly at his next words. “I picked out the blue stone – the color somehow . . . reminded me of you.”

Slowly, Draco held the pendant out to Harry, gave it back, and for a second Harry was sure his doubts about his gift were right, that Draco didn’t like it. But then – 

“Will you put it on me?” asked Draco softly.

Harry undid the clasp and reached around Draco’s neck with both hands to fasten it. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” he admitted.

“God, Harry, it’s exquisite. I love it. It’s like . . . both of us . . . together.” He laid his hand over it for a second, then unbuttoned the collar of his robe and tucked it inside. “I want to keep it close to me,” he said, as he did the buttons back up. “I want it to be private, just for us to know about. Do you mind very much, if I don’t want to show it off?”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Harry, smiling. He was pleased. The pendant had felt intensely personal to him, and the fact that Draco felt that too, and wanted to preserve it as something special just between the two of them, meant a lot to him.

Draco smiled back and pulled Harry close, then kissed him ardently, smile and all.

In fact, Harry was still smiling when Draco finally let him go. Their eyes met, a deep unspoken understanding in the gaze they shared, then Harry turned, blushing slightly, to look at the chessboard. “We probably have time for you to make your next move,” he said, teasing a little, “considering you have such limited options.” Draco had only two possible moves, and since only one of them, King to G2, gave any possibility of escape for Draco’s King, there was no question of what Draco should do. “You’re in check,” said Harry smugly. “Again.”

Draco was also studying the chessboard, but gave Harry an amused glance. “I can see that,” he said. He reached out slowly, picked up his King and moved it to the left one place. “King to E1,” he said, but he held onto the piece, still considering his move, keeping it incomplete.

Harry inhaled and bit his bottom lip. His pulse quickened with sudden hope. He couldn’t believe it! That was the wrong move. If Draco made that move, the game was over. Harry could checkmate him on the next move by taking Draco’s Pawn with Knight to C2. For one incredible moment, he let himself think of what could happen tonight if the game was over . . . 

But then Draco moved the King back to its original position at F1 and took his hand away. He looked up at Harry and raised one eyebrow.

Harry exhaled. “That would have been quite . . . fatal,” he said, still somewhat stunned that Draco had even contemplated that move.

“Indeed,” said Draco, giving Harry a shrewd, calculating glance. “It would have been practically . . . suicide.”

Harry reached out and touched Draco’s arm. “I can’t believe you almost made such a bad move,” he said. “But I wish you had. The game would have been over.” He let his fingers slide down over Draco’s wrist until he took Draco’s hand. “I want the game to be over, Draco. I don’t really care who wins.”

“I care,” said Draco seriously. “And it seems _my_ strategy is working perfectly.”

“How can you say that?” Harry laughed. “I’ve had you in check twice now.” He studied the chessboard for a moment, then shook his head. “If you’ve got some secret strategy that you think will win this game for you, I can’t see it.”

Draco shrugged slightly and turned away, his expression enigmatic.

“Wait,” said Harry. “There’s only one other move you can make. You might as well do it.”

“No,” said Draco, turning back with a bit of an impish grin, “it’s getting late. I want to get downstairs so we can be ready to go in at the exact moment when we can make the most shocking entrance,” he added archly. Then his expression took on an air of pretended martyrdom. “And we need to leave now, since _I_ have to walk all the way down to the Slytherin common room to get those _girls_ you’ve inflicted on us.”

* * * * * 

Harry waited near the bottom of the Slytherin tower stairs while Draco went down to the dungeons to get Natalia and Violet. And Harry had to laugh when they came up the stairs, for as much as Draco had complained about going with these girls, he was the epitome of the charming escort now, coming up from the dungeons with a girl on each arm. Natalia, her dark blonde hair sleeked back into a shining pony-tail, was wearing deep blue robes that accented her eyes, and Violet, her dark hair set in shoulder-length ringlets held back from her face by amethyst clips, wore robes the color of her name.

When she saw Harry, Natalia smiled and came forward to take Harry’s arm. “Thanks,” she whispered, “for talking him into it. Violet and I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

Harry blushed. “And neither would we,” he whispered back, “if you girls hadn’t thought of this.”

They all walked to the main entrance hall, arriving just as the doors to the Great Hall were thrown open and the students who had gathered and waited outside in suspense were finally allowed to go in. But Draco made them hang back and wait until everyone else had gone in, and then he made them wait five minutes more. At last, with a grin and one raised eyebrow at Harry, he decreed that the time had come.

_Oh my God_ , thought Harry as they stepped through the doors, _this is it!_

Harry and Draco walked into the Great Hall, side by side, the girls on their outside arms on either side, and paused just inside the doors. The Hall, decorated for Christmas, was a marvelously festive sight. Twelve huge evergreen trees stood at the back of the room, each covered with golden tinsel, sparkling glass balls and icicles, and twinkling, brightly-colored faerie lights, while garlands of mistletoe and ivy decorated the rafters. Banks of floating candles illuminated the room with a soft glow, and in the ceiling, the night sky was full of stars that drifted down and turned into glittering snowflakes that disappeared just over everyone’s heads.

The students, all arrayed in colorful dress robes, filled the Hall with smiles and excitement; some were standing together in sociable groups, but most were being seated at the small tables that were set up throughout the room, getting ready to order their dinners. It was a moment before anyone noticed Harry and Draco’s entrance, but then startled gasps were followed by a shocked silence that rippled outward through the room like a wave. Someone knocked over a goblet, and a couple of people dropped forks that skittered across the floor, the clatter of silver on stone loud in the stunned quiet that possessed the room.

Harry looked up to the Head Table and saw that Professor McGonagall was watching them with thin-lipped concern. Snape looked like he had bitten into something sour and unpleasantly pithy. Harry was suddenly glad that both their Heads of House already knew about their relationship, as both of them were immediately set on with questions by the other professors. Hagrid, however, was staring open-mouthed and Harry felt a momentary pang of guilt. He should have warned Hagrid about this, but things had happened so fast. He promised himself to take time to talk to his old friend over the Christmas holidays and explain. Dumbledore was watching with a mildly amused, but also somehow solemn expression.

It seemed that the air had become quite unexpectedly warm, and Harry turned to Draco to see if he was ready to let them finish this grand entrance and find a table. But before they could move, Dumbledore rose to his feet and faced Harry and Draco across the expanse of the Great Hall. “If I may have everyone’s attention for a moment,” he said, raising his arms out as if to embrace the room, “I have an important announcement to make.” There was a brief rustling of robes and shifting of chairs as students tore their gazes from the boys standing in the doorway to turn to look at Dumbledore. He waited until the noise settled.

“The very real possibility of war is something we all must face right now,” he began. “It would be easy to let suspicion and mistrust rule us, to imagine enemies everywhere we look.” The long cascading sleeves of his robes glinted with gold thread, reflecting the candlelight as he raised his arms. “But Christmas is a time when we celebrate peace and the spirit of goodwill. It is a time of giving gifts, forgiving old hurts and making new friends.” 

He paused and gazed over the top of his glasses in a way that seemed to take in every student in the room. “Sometimes,” he said, resuming his speech in a low confidential voice, “it takes a great deal of courage to do this.” He looked around the room again, then smiled at Harry and Draco. “Therefore, I am very pleased to congratulate two of our students for putting aside their long-standing differences. Twenty-five house points each to Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy for Gryffindor and Slytherin, for setting such an excellent example of Christmas spirit!”

Dumbledore began to clap his hands quietly, and after a second or two, Professor McGonagall rose from her seat at the Head Table and began to applaud also. Snape stood up then too, so as not to seem less magnanimous than McGonagall, but he didn’t bother to clap. That sour, pithy thing it appeared he’d swallowed earlier, now seemed to have sprouted spines and lodged in his throat. The rest of the staff stood a moment later and Harry was relieved to see that Hagrid now looked proud of him instead of shocked. Heads all over the room turned back to look at Harry and Draco as the students picked up the applause.

This applause from the students was not particularly enthusiastic – except perhaps, from some of the Hufflepuffs – since, though Christmas spirit was a good thing and all, most of the students were rather sorry to see this development, especially the Slytherins. The rivalry between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had afforded some good entertainment over the years and would certainly be missed.

Harry had started blushing long ago, but Draco’s reaction was mixed. He wasn’t really sure if he should be pleased by the attention and the house points, or irritated that his fun of shocking people had been somewhat spoiled by Dumbledore’s public acceptance. It was Harry’s wide grin that finally won him over to being pleased, and when their eyes met a moment later, Draco gave Harry a breathtaking smile.

Harry’s knees went a little weak; Draco was smiling at him like that, and everyone’s eyes were on them, and it was remarkable that he could think at all. But with a sudden leap of inspiration, Harry knew what he should do at just this moment – an opportunity was being given to him here that he might never have again, to make right something he had done, not wrong for him at the time certainly, but that had hurt Draco. Harry turned to Draco and in front of everyone, held out his hand.

There was a moment then, when everything in the room seemed to fall away from the two of them, the sounds of clapping hushed as if into a great distance, and time seemed to go still like a startled, held breath, as Draco looked down at Harry’s outstretched hand. In their first year, on the train, Harry had refused this gesture from Draco, and set in motion an escalating series of hurt feelings and retaliations that had followed them through their first six years at Hogwarts. Slowly, his face turning just a slight shade pinker, Draco reached out and took Harry’s offered hand. Their palms pressed together firmly, warmly, and held, and their eyes offered apology and gave forgiveness in the space of a heartbeat. And time and the noise and the room came back.

The applause went on for a few seconds more, then it died away as the staff sat down and everyone went back to ordering their dinners. Harry let go of Draco’s hand with a squeeze and then gestured out into the bustle of the room. “I see an empty table,” he said. “Over there, near the back.”

They made their way through the room, speculating whispers and a few giggles following in their wake. Harry would be glad when they finally got to their table and could sit down. Draco might like being the center of attention and shocking people, but Harry didn’t – he’d just wanted to do this to show the whole school that they were friends, and have it over with at once. And that, thanks also to Dumbledore’s little speech, had certainly been accomplished. He was immensely grateful for that – it set a public tone for their friendship that would hopefully keep some of the worst teasing away.

There were a couple of faces in the crowd, however, that were more than just simply shocked or surprised. Ron, now properly healed of all his potion burns, and sitting at a table with Hermione, Seamus and Ginny, looked quite appalled and put out. And truly, it would be hard to say what bothered him the most – that Harry had actually had the nerve to show up with Draco, or that Seamus was grinning from ear to ear.

“Told you he would do it!” gloated Seamus. He poked Ron hard in the ribs with one elbow. “See, even Dumbledore says it’s good – in keeping with the spirit of Christmas and peace on earth and everything and . . . oh, Saints in Heaven!” He gave Ron a huge grin. “Look at them! Did you see? I can’t believe it! They’re dressed exactly alike!” He turned back to watch as Harry and Draco escorted their dates through the crowded Hall, and drew in a sharp breath. “And Harry looks . . . oh my God . . . Harry looks gorgeous!”

“Oh, _do_ shut up,” muttered Ron. He rolled his eyes as Hermione swatted him mildly on the arm. “Well, it’s bad enough that Harry has to make a spectacle of himself,” he mumbled defensively, “without _him_ rubbing it in.”

Ginny smiled uncertainly at Seamus, then gave Ron a look of sympathy. She liked Seamus and enjoyed his teasing, especially when he teased her brother, but in this case, like Ron, she still felt a bit bewildered by Harry’s apparent betrayal. Then she turned back to look at Harry and forgot all about that. Good lord, Seamus was right! Harry _did_ look stunning! God, so did Malfoy for that matter. She grinned at Hermione, who mouthed _wow_ back at her, which caused Ron to roll his eyes again and Seamus to laugh.

At a different table, Pansy, sitting with Blaise, watched Draco walk through the room with another girl on his arm and was simply incensed; the cold, unforgiving grip of jealousy took violent hold of her heart and squeezed until it hurt. The fact that he was also with Harry Potter was not lost on her, but mattered a great deal less to her than the fact that this little twerp of a girl, this Slytherin sixth-year, had not only usurped her rightful place at the Yule Ball – but had undoubtedly spent the night with Draco too. Pansy had hardly ever even been allowed in his room, much less to spend more than five minutes there. It was too much.

Pansy glared at Draco from across Hall while he and Potter and those two insufferable girls sat and ordered dinner, then she glanced around the room. The commotion was over now, the rest of the students caught up in their own affairs – everyone was busy and seemed to have, at least momentarily, forgotten all about Draco and his party. Blaise was discussing Quidditch with another member of the Slytherin team at the next table and was not paying any attention to her. No one was going to notice, she decided, if she paid Draco a little visit. Slipping quietly from her seat, she got up and headed for Draco’s table.

She stood behind Draco for a moment, her hands on her hips, watching him laugh and clink his raised goblet of Yule punch against Potter’s. It was infuriating. The jealousy that had clutched her heart gave it a nasty twist and she stepped boldly forward. “Oh, isn’t this cozy,” she said, oozing sarcasm. “Harry Potter . . . sitting with the Slytherins. Next thing we know, the Devil will be wanting ice skates for Christmas.”

Draco turned and fixed her with a level stare – not at all amused. “What do you want, Pansy?” he asked, a biting edge to his voice.

Pansy dismissed Draco’s question with a sniff, then gazed angrily past him at the girl seated beside him. “So _this_ is the little tramp you’ve been bedding,” she sniped, looking Violet up and down. “God, Draco. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t you? Surely you could have done better than _this_ , even for a quick shag.”

Draco gave her a glance of undisguised animosity then turned his back on her. “If you mean I could have looked under a rock and come up with you . . .” he retorted over his shoulder, “. . . no, thank you.”

Pansy stood perfectly still for a moment, her face burning as those two stupid sixth-year girls sniggered behind their hands at Draco’s words, then in a blind rush of fury, she snatched up Draco’s full goblet of punch and poured it in one great frothy torrent right over his arrogant blond head.

“Gaaaahh!” Draco gasped as he was drenched in the icy pink liquid.

Harry stared in disbelief for a half a second, but then he couldn’t help it. It was bad of him, he knew, and he really tried not to, but he laughed. Draco had that drowned-rat look again. A stream of pink punch ran off the end of his nose, while other little rivulets spilled and dripped from the ends of his hair and trickled down his neck into his collar. Bits of the froth and bubbles sat like a crown on top of his head. His face was a perfect picture of shocked outrage.

Pansy turned on Harry next, saw him laughing, and was far too angry to care why. “Oh, shut your bloody mouth, Potter,” she snarled, and she grabbed up Harry’s goblet and poured punch all over his head too.

Draco came to his feet instantly and seized Pansy’s arm. By that time everyone at the nearby tables was watching this spectacle in stunned, but very amused, silence. Quite a few of the students, especially those who had been a bit disappointed by the truce, were now pleased to discover that even if Potter and Malfoy were friends, they could still be counted on to provide a wonderful source of entertainment.

Ron had stood up to rush over, but both Hermione and Seamus caught hold of him and made him sit back down. Hermione quickly pointed out that Professor Snape, his long black dress robes sweeping out behind him, was headed straight for Harry’s table. _And_ , she reminded him, after this afternoon’s fiasco in Potions class, Ron had best not go near Professor Snape. Ron sank resignedly into his seat, relegated to watching along with everyone else.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said Snape’s slow, cold, condescending voice from behind Pansy and Draco. “Explain this at once. What is going on here?”

The professor gave Harry a cursory glance, and Harry thought he saw the corner of Snape’s mouth twitch. It might have been just the merest hint of amusement, this twitch, but then again, it might just as easily have been spiny-pithy-thing-induced-heartburn.

Pansy was twisting her arm in Draco’s grip, but he held on to her. “She attacked me with my own punch,” declared Draco hotly. “And Potter too. It was completely unprovoked, sir. _We_ were minding our own business.”

“Miss Parkinson,” said Snape, turning on Pansy, eyes glittering dangerously. He drew himself up with his arms inside his robes like a big black bat. “This is twice today you have lost control of yourself. If you have nothing better to do than this, perhaps you’d like to spend the holidays here . . . working for me?”

“No, sir,” said Pansy sullenly. She jerked her arm out of Draco’s grasp.

“Then I suggest you refrain from creating any further disturbances,” lectured Snape. Immediately.” He gave her a withering stare. “Before I’m forced to deduct points from my own house.”

Pansy put her pug nose in the air, and with one last scathing look at Draco, slunk back to her table without another word.

Draco turned around and then had to grin at Harry, who was trying to wipe punch off his glasses with a dinner napkin. “You look ridiculous,” he said.

“No more than you,” grinned Harry back, squinting through his now dry, but sticky-streaked glasses. “Your hair is pink. And bubbly.”

The girls they were with had gotten over being astonished and were giggling rather uncontrollably.

Snape gave them all a disgusted look. “Malfoy,” he commanded, pulling out his wand, “turn around and stand still.” With a quick, well-practiced swish of his wand, he used the same spell he employed in his classroom to clean up spilled or exploded potions and erased all traces of the spilled punch from Draco’s person and clothing.

“Thank you, sir,” said Draco, quite surprised, and very pleased. The evening and his robes were not ruined after all. Except . . .

With a slight nod of his head, Snape acknowledged Draco’s thanks and turned to go back to the Head Table.

“But, Professor,” said Draco urgently. “Wait. What about Potter?”

Snape turned back and looked Harry over, rather disdainfully. “What about him?”

“Can’t you clean him up, too?”

“I don’t know why I should,” he said, his lip curled in distaste. “ _He’s_ not in my house.”

“But he’s _my_ date,” insisted Draco in a low whisper. “You can’t leave him like this!”

The professor hesitated for a long moment, black eyes narrowed at Draco. “Oh, very well,” he drawled acidly, giving in. “Stand up, Potter,” he said, eyeing Harry as if that prickly, spiny thing was lodged in his throat again.

Harry stood and a moment later, was clean too, and Snape swept himself and his billowing robes away to his own dinner.

The rest of the meal was uneventful and very soon the tables were pushed close to the walls and the music and dancing began. The Weird Sisters were unavailable this year but the new band, The Shrieking Banshees, met with quick approval when they started their first set with a rousing, wailing beat. Harry and Draco asked the girls to dance and the four of them formed a tight foursome on the dance floor.

A short while later, Ron, whose watchful eye had never strayed far from Harry all this time, suddenly tugged at Hermione’s sleeve. “Look!” he said in a low, urgent voice, with every appearance of being shocked again. “Harry is dancing with Malfoy!”

Hermione, who was not nearly as tall as Ron and couldn’t see as well over everyone’s heads, still tried to look to where the two boys and their dates were dancing. The drummer was pounding out a very compelling rhythm, and the room was full of students wiggling about with complete abandon in time to the music. Even a few ghosts were swaying or spinning delightedly in place amongst the crowd. From what she _could_ see, however, it appeared that Harry’s group were all dancing together rather than being paired off as couples. It wasn’t at all clear that Harry was dancing with the girl who was supposed to be his date, nor Draco with his. It did look a little like the two boys were turned more toward each other, and so were the girls.

But, she noticed with approval, it looked like Harry was having fun. She shook her head and turned to Ron, who was still craning his neck to watch, and consequently nearly stepped on her toe. “Will you please let Harry worry about Harry,” she said, a little annoyed, “and pay more attention to the fact that _you_ are dancing with _me_?”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, and he did try to stop watching Harry every minute, but it was hard.

When the first set of songs ended, Harry and Draco, with Natalia and Violet in tow, left the dance floor to check out the glorious sweets table that was set up near the doors. It was covered with golden dishes and platters full of scrumptious bite-sized desserts and a vast array of candies. The girls tried some of the salamander-shaped chocolate-marshmallow-and-caramel truffles, but Draco pulled Harry aside. A slow dance song was just starting up. “You promised to dance with me,” he said softly, reminding Harry of the second condition he’d set for coming.

Draco was standing very close, close enough that his fingers were able to find Harry’s hand under the cover of their robes. Harry’s heart beat a little faster as he looked out over the Hall for a place that would give them some privacy. He had the Invisibility Cloak, but even if they couldn’t be seen, it wouldn’t do for people to bump into them. Other couples had already tucked themselves into most of the corners . . . then Harry saw the perfect place.

“Tell the girls we’ll be gone for a while,” he whispered to Draco. “Then meet me behind the third Christmas tree from the end over there.”

Draco looked where Harry was indicating and nodded. He drifted off toward the two girls and Harry started off through the crowd of dancers. On his way, he spotted Hermione and Ron sitting at their table and detoured in that direction.

“Hey,” he said, sitting down in Ginny’s empty seat. “I can only stay a second. Isn’t this grand this year?” he grinned, gesturing at the Hall.

“ _You_ certainly look grand!” said Hermione, smiling back. “And it looks like you’re having a good time.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, his mouth screwed up a little crookedly. “That was some entrance you made. It nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Harry laughed. “That, and the robes, were Draco’s idea, I’m afraid.” He leaned closer and laid his left hand out on the table in front of them. “I just wanted you guys to see my Christmas present.”

It took a moment, but then Hermione gave a quiet gasp of surprise. “Oh, _Harry_ ,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “It’s gorgeous!”

Ron’s mouth dropped open, speechless.

“It is, isn’t it?” said Harry proudly, standing up. “But, I’ve got to go. I’ll let you see it better later.”

Ron slumped down in his chair. “You don’t think he’s gone and got himself engaged to that git, do you?” he moaned, watching Harry walk away.

Hermione had the good sense to laugh at him.

But Ron kept his eyes on Harry and saw him do the most curious thing – saw him wander over to the Christmas trees and stroll slowly around for a moment as if admiring the ornaments, and then suddenly slip around the back of one and disappear. Ron sat up straight. What was Harry doing? 

He watched to see if Harry would come back out, but in another minute or so, instead of Harry reappearing, Malfoy sauntered over and did the same thing. Then Hermione asked him to dance again, saying the music was so slow and nice, and Ron decided not to mention anything yet and see what would happen. After all, Harry was safe enough at the moment. What could Malfoy possibly pull in a room full of people like this . . . ?

* * * * * 

Behind the trees, with the faerie lights casting twinkling spheres of many colors over them, Harry drew Draco under the Invisibility Cloak. The music had a haunting lilt to the melody and a rhythmic, subtly seductive beat. Draco’s arms came around his neck, and Harry allowed the other boy’s surer, more graceful movements to guide him as they leaned together, circling slowly in place. Harry closed his eyes, letting the music and Draco fill his world, letting everything else slip away. He felt Draco nuzzle his ear, and turned his head so that Draco’s fine blond hair tickled and caressed his face.

“You’re not so bad a dancer,” said Draco in a low voice in Harry’s ear.

“You’re not expecting me to lead,” whispered Harry, smiling.

Harry held Draco close, and they relaxed into each other, their bodies rocking together in time to the music. Draco’s hips were swaying against his and Harry felt a rush of heat wash over him. _Oh_. His arms were around Draco’s waist and suddenly he wanted to be so much closer. He hesitated a moment, then slowly slid his hands down lower over Draco’s hips to pull him tighter against himself. He felt Draco’s soft intake of breath against his cheek, and the heat rush washed through him again.

Harry kissed the side of Draco’s face, in front of his ear. One of Draco’s hands came up to tangle in Harry’s hair, and Harry drew back a little, turning his head to find Draco’s mouth with his own. Then they were kissing and there was passion in it, taking Harry’s breath and sending shivery waves of desire running through him.

Draco broke the kiss with a sigh, and Harry bent his head to press one more lingering kiss on Draco’s neck, in the tender spot just below the angle of his jaw. Draco was so warm in Harry’s arms, his skin under Harry’s mouth was hot. Harry felt as if his heart was pounding in time to the music, felt the echo of it in Draco’s pulse beneath his lips, the touch of Draco’s hands filling him with both need and a sense of completion.

“Let’s go outside,” whispered Draco.

* * * * * 

“I can’t believe he came with that sixth-year, and Potter!” seethed Pansy, as she danced with Blaise. “Sitting there together as cool and chummy as you please, when everyone knows they hate each other! What would his father say?”

Blaise shrugged noncommittally. “I saw Draco with Potter in Hogsmeade a few days ago at the Three Broomsticks. They didn’t look like they hated each other at all.” He frowned down at Pansy. “But Draco told me later that it’s part of a plan he has, and he doesn’t want anyone interfering. You should stay out of it, Pansy.”

Pansy smiled up at him innocently. “What kind of plan?”

“I don’t know,” said Blaise slowly, uncertainly. “Draco doesn’t want me to talk about it. He was pretty clear about that.”

“But you’ve already talked about it, love.” She batted her eyes at him. “You can tell _me_ . . .”

Blaise looked down at her, considering. He’d been quite intrigued when she’d asked him to the ball. She flirted outrageously with anything male, but all the Slytherins knew she only had eyes for Draco, and her flirting was no more than vain attempts to get Draco’s attention or make him jealous. Blaise assumed this was no different, but it did present him with an opportunity he was only too willing to take advantage of. And her interest in Draco’s plan now might be just the thing he could use.

But Draco had made a rather fearful impression on him, had hinted of connections to powers that Blaise had no intention of bringing down on himself. All the flirting in the world that Pansy might do was not worth that. “No,” he said. “And that’s final,” he added, seeing her face screw up into a pout. “I promised not to talk about it.”

They danced in silence for several minutes. Blaise was plotting several schemes for how he might get Pansy down a deserted corridor later to see if he could kiss her, and if so, wondering how far that might go. Meanwhile, Pansy was wondering if she could maneuver Blaise into making out with her in an empty classroom and if so, how far she might have to go to get him to tell her Draco’s plan.

Then something brushed against them unobserved.

Suddenly Pansy screeched, and was hopping on one foot, the other raised painfully. “Bloody hell, Blaise!” she gasped. “That was my foot you just stomped on!”

“I did not!” protested Blaise, taken aback. “I know I didn’t.”

“Well, who else could have!” she seethed. “I sure as hell didn’t stomp on it myself!”

“It wasn’t _me_!”

“It was too!”

Blaise glared at her, all thoughts of dimly lighted corridor assignations abandoned in a heartbeat. “Oh, that’s just fine,” he said, indignant. “If you’re going to be stomping on your own feet, you can bloody well dance with yourself, too!” He marched off to join Crabbe and Goyle who were happily gorging themselves on mini mince pies, candy cane wands, and pumpkin pasties over at the sweets table.

Pansy watched his retreating back, angrily rubbing her throbbing foot. She limped back to their table and sat down, craning her neck to see Draco’s table. The two girls were there, heads bent together in a cozy chat, but Draco and Potter were not. She scanned the crowd, looking for them, and couldn’t find them anywhere. She slumped back in her chair, momentarily defeated, but determined to wait. If the girls were there, they would be back.

Pansy certainly didn’t hear the disembodied voices snickering out in the entrance hall, as the main doors were opened by invisible hands.

“God, Draco,” said one of the voices in a laughing whisper. “You’re going to cripple somebody one of these days.”

“Oh, she asked for it,” replied the other smug voice, the tone full of righteous indignation. “No one pours punch on _my_ date – ”

Then the doors closed and there was only silence in the hall.

* * * * * 

Ron, still ever watchful despite Hermione’s disapproval, had maintained a constant vigil since he’d seen Malfoy disappear behind the Christmas trees. Now, alerted by the fuss Pansy made, he saw something suspicious happen between where Pansy was standing with Blaise and the doors to the Great Hall. Students were dancing, but they seemed to shift to the side a bit and make way, unconsciously sensing another couple brushing against them or behind them but not noticing that no one was there. From Ron’s tall vantage point, as he danced with Hermione on the other side of the Hall, it seemed as if something invisible was making its way unnoticed through the crowd, creating a wake of empty space for a moment that progressed on a clear line to the doors.

If he hadn’t been so very familiar with Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, he probably would never have noticed it himself or would have dismissed it entirely. However, given that he _did_ know, and given that Harry and Malfoy were still nowhere in sight, he came to a quick conclusion about what was going on, and an even quicker decision about what to do about it.

He stopped dancing and stepped back just a little, not quite letting go of Hermione. “Do you mind if we go outside,” he said, when she looked up at him, questioning. “I . . . er . . . need to get some air.”

* * * * * 

This year, a magical garden of arches and small arbors covered with flowering vines – yellow jasmine and honeysuckle and blue wisteria, moonflowers and red trumpet vines, deep violet clematis, pink mandevilla and climbing roses – a profusion of trailing blossoms, had been conjured up just outside the castle doors. Winding pathways of white stone meandered through the maze of hanging flowers, and a few couples, escaping the crowded dance, could be seen dimly, sitting on ornate benches or leaning together within the archways. The air was laden with sweet fragrances and the darting lights of hundreds of tiny faeries.

Most of the snow had melted during the day, though long, glittering moonlit patches lay in the hollows under bushes and against the walls of the castle where shadows had sheltered it from the sun. Harry and Draco walked slowly around the lake, holding hands, invisible under the cloak, letting the silent beauty of the night envelop them. They stopped in the small grove of birch trees on the other side of the lake.

The little clearing was full of slanting moonlight and curving tree-shadow; the air was cold and stirring, exhilarating with a taste of snow still lingering on it. The cloak shimmered with refracted moonlight in Harry’s hands, sparking pinpoints of color into the frosty air as they emerged from under it into the milk-pale light and deep blue shadows.

Draco shook back his hair, and breathed deeply. “Much better,” he said. “It was stifling in there.”

Harry smiled and carefully laid the cloak aside. He stepped through the trees to stand in the moonlight at the edge of the water. Across the lake, Hogwarts was lit up from the inside, golden lamplight from the many windows spilling across the dark water to lap in quiet, gilt-edged ripples at Harry’s feet.

He felt Draco behind him and closed his eyes, waiting for that first touch of Draco’s hands on him, all his senses focused on the expectation of it. Something that was now part of him was subtly missing until that touch came, until that connection between them was restored. Draco’s hands slid around his waist from behind, arms coming around to pull him close, and Harry leaned back into that embrace. “Much better,” he echoed softly.

They stood like this for a moment or two, gazing out over the water, a lilt of music carrying over the lake as someone opened the entrance doors to the castle and came out, a couple silhouetted for a moment in the light that flooded out from behind them, then lost to shadow again as the doors closed.

Draco kissed the curving edge of Harry’s ear. “I’d like to teach you something,” he whispered. “If you will.”

“Sure.” Harry turned and took Draco’s offered hand. “What is it?”

“It’s called _Ti’kira_ ,” said Draco. “It’s a ritual dance that’s part of the traditional wizarding wedding rites.” He paused for a second, then explained further. “The steps and gestures of the dance create a pattern spell out of the old magic, a binding spell to seal the couple’s vows and complete the ceremony.” Draco studied Harry’s face, his eyes intense, bright in the moonlight. “I will never dance this with anyone else,” he added softly. “Will you . . . dance with me?”

Draco’s voice held a solemn gravity that made Harry shiver as he understood the serious nature of what Draco was telling him, and what he was asking. “Yes,” said Harry, equally serious though excitement began to well up inside him for what it seemed they were about to do, what Draco would teach him and make of them tonight.

And Harry knew without any other words needing to be said that this would be real for them, that two hearts could bind themselves to each other just as surely by mutual consent and the magic of a moonlit dance as in a real wedding, even if only they themselves were witness. “I will dance with you,” he said.

* * * * * 

Ron and Hermione came out of the castle and paused for a moment just outside the doors – Hermione taking in the loveliness of the hanging gardens, Ron scanning the grounds for any sign of Harry and Draco. He was sure he’d been right about what he’d seen, sure that they had left the Ball under the Invisibility Cloak. It was only a guess that they’d come outside of course – they might have disappeared into the castle, or gone back to Draco’s room. Then he spotted a flash of movement across the lake, moonlight on blond hair, and saw a dark-haired figure turn and follow that blond head back into the trees on the far side of the lake. He’d been right!

At this point, Ron decided that honesty was his best, and really only, option. Hermione was far too smart to believe they had just happened to find Harry and Malfoy on the other side of the lake if he insisted they walk over there. He took a deep breath and confessed what he had seen.

At first, Hermione refused to go with him, but he was adamant – he didn’t trust Malfoy and absolutely had to see if Harry was okay. She quickly realized that he was not going to give up, and she was not going to have a moment’s peace unless they went. And she didn’t dare let him go alone – no telling what he might do then.

With a sigh, she agreed, and they set off to walk around the lake. Hermione had a pretty good idea of what they would most likely be interrupting, having walked in on Harry and Draco up in Draco’s room the other night, and with a sudden sense of perverse justice, she thought it would serve Ron right if he got a good eyeful.

* * * * * 

Draco drew Harry back into the ring of trees so that they stood close together in the center of the little glade, bathed in the moonlight. “I’ll go slowly at first,” he said, taking a step back and letting go of Harry’s hand. “All you have to do most of the time is mirror what I do.”

Harry nodded, then gave Draco a teasing smile. “You’re making me dance the girl parts, aren’t you?” he asked.

“One of us has to,” said Draco with an answering grin. “And since I’m leading . . .”

Okay,” laughed Harry. He was excited, from the moonlight refracting in the cold air, from Draco’s warm presence, from the anticipation of this new kind of magic. “What do we do?”

“It’s an old dance,” said Draco, “and very serious. The movements are meant to be slow and reverent. So . . .” He bowed gracefully, one arm bent across his waist, the other extended straight behind him.

Harry imitated the movement, though he had to suppress a brief, amusing impulse to curtsy instead. It was a fleeting thought and he was able to straighten up and face Draco with the proper degree of seriousness and respect for what they were doing. Especially since Draco looked so beautiful in the moonlight, pale and ethereal, almost as if he were made of the moonlight himself.

Another shiver washed through Harry – he could feel magic stirring at the edges of his awareness, could sense that they were beginning the invocation of a very powerful spell, a spell that would be woven of the love they felt and bind that love between them.

Draco held out his hands and stepped forward. Harry did the same, and they joined hands. From this position, Draco began to teach Harry the dance. The actual basic step used throughout the dance was simple – however, the sequences of forward and backward steps and turnings, combined with the hand motions needed to create the pattern magic, was much more complex, and in this Draco showed that he could be a very skillful teacher.

Harry followed Draco through the whole thing once, very slowly. Their hands, either clasped or pressed palm to palm, were almost always touching. They circled, turned and circled back, stepped close together and out to arm’s length, while their hands drew slow symbols and lines and circles between their bodies and in graceful sweeping arcs over their heads.

They practiced the entire pattern twice, and Harry had it mastered by the end of their second time through. Starting the dance the third time, he felt almost as if he was floating in a moonlit dream. This time it was real.

He felt the magic rising, flowing with them, their matching, graceful movements tracing the patterns between them, weaving the spell perfectly. Magic vibrated in the air; a hush of power encircled them. Harry looked into Draco’s eyes, bright silver in the moonlight, felt the touch of Draco’s hands against his own, so warm and sure and gentled with affection, and his heart filled up with love for his beautiful partner.

The magic filled him too, threading into his heart and Draco’s, tying them together, a binding of heart with willing heart. Their hands met and moved together, and Harry saw the white and gold sparks shimmer in the air, following the path of the pattern they traced.

Then Draco spoke very softly so as not to break the spell. “Don’t stop,” he said, “but, we have company. It looks like Granger and Weasley.”

“Ron,” whispered Harry, “was probably worried. Sorry.”

Draco grinned at him. “Oh, I don’t mind,” he said. “I’m quite sure he knows what we’re doing. Which means he’s probably having heart failure over there.”

Harry smiled and Draco smiled back, that stunning real smile that always took Harry’s breath away.

“Can you see the sparks, Harry? Between our hands, like the other night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you can make them visible? If they’re going to watch, we might as well make it spectacular.”

* * * * * 

Hermione followed Ron around the lake to the birch grove where Draco was leading Harry through the steps of the dance. They stood back in the shadows of the trees, where, hopefully, they wouldn’t be seen. She felt quite reluctant to be here, watching, spying, but knew she couldn’t trust Ron to be here by himself since this involved Harry and Draco. After watching for a few minutes, she was just about to point out that Harry was obviously fine and insist that they go back, when Ron gasped quietly.

“Good lord,” he whispered in a shocked kind of hiss. “Look what they’re doing!”

“What?” asked Hermione, puzzled and slightly alarmed, partly from his tone and partly from fear that he’d spoken in such a loud whisper. “It looks like Draco is teaching Harry some kind of folk dance. I don’t see – ”

“That’s _not_ a folk dance!”

Ron was clearly upset, and Hermione took firm hold of his arm, afraid that he was going to rush out and do something rash and impulsive. “What is it then?”

“It’s a very old magic spell,” said Ron, turning to look at her, eyes wide with worry. “The _Ti’kira_. Don’t you recognize it?”

“No,” said Hermione. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. What does it do? Why are you so upset?”

Ron groaned. “It’s the wedding dance. We can’t let Harry go through with it – he can’t know what he’s doing.” He moved as if he was thinking of taking off to rescue Harry, and Hermione tightened her grip on his arm.

“What do you mean, the wedding dance? Ron, explain. What exactly _is_ Harry doing? You can’t mean he’s . . . that he and Draco are . . . getting married somehow . . . right here, now.”

“No, no, not married, exactly,” moaned Ron. “But it’s a kind of binding spell and quite serious, like a vow, all by itself,” he whispered, very unsettled. “It’s done at traditional magical weddings to create a powerful living bond between the couple, as a sign of their love and commitment to each other. Not even Malfoy would take it lightly.”

Hermione turned to watch Harry and Draco. Harry was catching on very quickly and starting to move smoothly with Draco through the steps of the dance. There was a lovely elegance beginning to show in the mirrored movements of their bodies, in the patterns drawn between them with their hands, and a feeling of deep intentionality in the way they faced each other.

“You saw that ring,” she said. “I’d say Harry probably knows exactly what he’s doing.” She squeezed Ron’s arm in warning. “And we’re not going to interfere,” she added firmly.

Ron didn’t answer, just sighed grudgingly in defeat, then stood, watching with Hermione while Harry and Draco finished their second practice and started the dance again, this time moving in perfect fluid synchronization with each other. There was a definite hush in the air now, as if magic were spinning a circle of love all around them, and reaching out, weaving the watchers into its spell as well.

“Will we do that at our wedding?” whispered Hermione, letting go of Ron’s arm, slipping her hand into his instead.

“Yes. And I’m sorry. I would have told you before, but I forgot you wouldn’t know it,” answered Ron, contrite. “It’s something that’s been handed down only through wizarding families, not in books.”

“You’ll have to teach it to me.”

“My mum can teach you – you aren’t supposed to dance it with your intended beforehand.”

Hermione nodded, and turned back to watch, mesmerized. “It’s very beautiful,” she said quietly.

Harry was smiling. Draco was smiling too, smiling back at Harry in the streaming moonlight with a genuineness that was stunning. Their movements were exquisitely matched now, the touches of their hands eloquent in affection. Suddenly, tiny sparks of gold and crystal light swirled around them and cascaded over them, following the movement of their hands. They seemed for a moment to be enveloped in light. Hermione thought they might incandesce.

Ron drew in a sharp breath. “I’ve never seen anything like that.” He stood quite still, unable to look away, then he spoke very softly, more as if he were talking to himself than to Hermione. “Maybe he really does love Harry.”

“Yes,” breathed Hermione. “That’s what everyone has been trying to tell you.”

“But they’re so different,” he protested feebly.

“And we’re not?” she asked with a quiet laugh.

Ron grinned down at her and shrugged, conceding that point without protest.

“Once I would have said they were completely different,” continued Hermione, thoughtfully. “But now I’m not so sure. They are a lot alike in some ways too. I see them now, not so much as different, but as the two opposite halves of a whole. I’m not sure they can do without each other now.”

Ron considered that and had to finally admit to the truth of it. “Will you come with me,” he asked rather sheepishly, “when I have to go apologize to Malfoy?”

Hermione stood on tiptoe and smiling, kissed him, then stepped away. “C’mon,” she said. “You can do that tomorrow. I think we’ve trespassed on their privacy long enough.” She held out her hand to him. “Let’s go back. I’d like to walk through the gardens.”

With one last long glance at Harry and Draco, Ron took her hand and allowed himself be led off in the direction of the castle. “I’ll bet _some_ people will be getting everything they’ve been wishing for tonight,” he said wistfully. Hermione gave him a stern look. “Don’t worry,” he added in a low voice. “I know _I_ won’t be one of them.”

* * * * * 

Draco brought the dance to an end with another graceful bow.

Harry returned the gesture and stood facing Draco. The air seemed charged with magic. “What happens now?” he asked quietly, his heart full, a bit intoxicated by the flow of power between them. “In the real ceremony?”

“The announcement that the couple are husband and wife . . .” Draco paused, drawing Harry close again, “. . . and then this . . .” For a second, he didn’t move, just stood looking into Harry’s shining green eyes. He lifted one hand to touch Harry’s face, then bent his head to kiss Harry, gently, intensely, like a promise of things yet to be between them.

Harry’s arms went around Draco’s waist and he held on tightly, letting Draco claim his mouth and tell him things that words could never have said. Words could never hold the meaning of this warm breath against his cheek, or of the touch of this hand, or the beating of two hearts in time with each other.

Draco drew back a little and rested his forehead against Harry’s. “I don’t want to go back to the Ball,” he said softly, “and all those people. I want to be with you, up in my room . . . just us.”

“I’d like that,” said Harry, breathless, excitement stirring at Draco’s words. “Let’s go find the girls. Maybe they’ll be ready to go, too.” He pulled reluctantly out of Draco’s embrace and found the Invisibility Cloak. “Do you think we need this now?”

“No,” said Draco. “You’d better shrink it and put it away. I don’t really think anyone will notice us coming back.” He laughed mischievously. “And if they do, and want to be shocked, well . . . that’s all to the good, right?”

Harry grinned and did the spell. Then with the cloak hidden in his pocket, they started back to the castle.

“On second thought,” said Draco, slowing and turning to Harry as they neared the gardens outside the entrance doors, “we may need that cloak. Even after tonight, you shouldn’t be seen coming up to my room. After we get the girls, it would be best for us to split up at the top of the dungeon stairs. I’ll take them back down to the Slytherin common room and you go up the main stairs as if you are going back to Gryffindor.”

“And I’ll turn around as soon as I get out of sight and sneak back down under the cloak.”

Draco nodded. “There are too many eyes that may be watching us tonight.” He raised one eloquent eyebrow. “We don’t want any stray cats interfering this time.”

Harry smiled ruefully. No indeed, they did not.

“And Harry,” said Draco, his voice lowered, hushed. “If you happen to get up to my room before me, the password to my door . . . is your name.”

* * * * * 

Pansy came out of her room onto the landing outside her door and looked around. She was sure she’d heard footsteps coming up the stairs just now, but no one was there. She’d been listening from inside her room with the door slightly ajar for Draco to come back. Frowning, remembering how easily Draco had disarmed her alarm ward earlier this afternoon, and set his own to prevent her from doing it again, she sat down on the bottom step to wait. There was no way she could miss him this way. Draco had to be coming back any minute – and she was determined to talk to him.

She’d seen him leave the dance early, slipping out of the Great Hall with Potter and those two girls and had followed them. Followed them far enough to see that they went to the top of the dungeon stairs, and as she hung back watching, saw Potter say a polite goodnight and head back to the main stairs while Draco took the girls down to the Slytherin dorms. He’d had, she thought, more than enough time to get those girls back to their rooms, unless . . . 

Belatedly it occurred to her that Draco might intend to stay with his date for a while – perhaps they were already making out in the Slytherin common room. She shivered, more from that revolting thought than from the frigid air in the tower.

She was wondering if she dared go down there to find him, and if she could stand to face what she might see, when she heard running steps coming up the stairs. In another second, Draco came around the curve of the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Her breath caught in her throat because she had never seen him look like he did now – flushed and smiling . . . obviously happy, stunning in his dress robes, hair swept back from running. 

And a moment later, as his face changed when he saw her, she felt that change like a slap, had to struggle not to let the tears come now, in front of him, though she already knew they would come later, relentlessly. Standing up, she wrapped her arms around herself and faced him, blocking his path. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, lifting her chin.

“That much was obvious,” said Draco evenly, keeping his distance, folding his arms across his chest. “Why?”

She broke a little at his tone – she had expected anger, especially after what she had done at the Ball, but instead his voice still held a hint of the excitement and happiness she had seen on his face a moment ago. She had no defense against him when he was quiet, almost friendly like this.

“Draco,” she started, fighting to stay calm, “I know you. And in spite of what most of the school believes, I know you’ve never had a girl in your room overnight before two nights ago.” She took a step toward him, felt her control breaking even more just at the sight of him, that he could be so close and yet stay so far out of reach. “It’s just that . . . I can’t understand what you could possibly see in that silly, simpering sixth-year,” she said, her desperation surfacing, the unshed tears sounding in her voice. “She’s a . . . a nobody. I can’t believe she got through that icy wall you hide behind . . . when I’ve been trying to for years.”

“Ah,” said Draco, as cool and infuriatingly reserved as ever, “but you see, you don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He tilted his head slightly, watching her intently. “And you wouldn’t like the truth any better than what you’ve imagined.”

She closed her eyes for a second, swallowing pride. “You think there’s something worse you can tell me . . . than that you’d rather be with that little nobody tramp than with me?”

He paused, debating inwardly how much to tell her. “You’re completely wrong about the girl,” he said after a moment. “I’ve never had a girl in my room overnight – and never will. Not that sixth-year . . . or you either . . . ever.”

She tried to ignore that last part, for though it was said quietly, it stung. “You can’t keep denying that,” she retorted, indignation giving her a momentary strength. “I know you had someone in your room all night, Draco. I may not be as good as you at spells, but I can set an alarm ward perfectly.”

“I’m _not_ denying it,” he said flatly. “Pansy, think. If you know I had someone in my room and I said it wasn’t that girl, not any girl . . .” He sighed as she frowned at him, confused. “I spent the night with the person who was my real date tonight.”

“Real date? But who . . . ?” Her eyes went wide as an entirely new and quite staggering thought occurred to her. “Potter!?” 

She looked at Draco in horror and saw that there was not a shred of denial in his cool gaze. “Oh my God . . . you mean you’re – ” She choked in disbelief. “ – shagging _Potter_!?” She stared at him, huge-eyed, her hand going up to cover her mouth for a moment. “God, Draco,” she said finally, “how can you stomach it? Blaise said you were with him because of some kind of plan, but that’s taking things a bit too far, don’t you think? I mean, to force yourself to sleep with a boy is bad enough, but _Potter_!?”

He stared at her for a second, incredulous at her refusal to understand what he was plainly telling her. “No one,” he said, his lip curled up slightly, “forces _me_ to do anything. _You_ of all people should know that. If I’m sleeping with a _‘boy,’_ it’s because I want to, because that’s what I like.” His voice had that familiar angry edge now. “And I’m not _‘shagging’_ Potter. Not that I would expect you to know the difference between that and what it’s like to be with someone you love.”

He quickly took a few steps forward so that he was standing very close, then brushed by her to go up the stairs behind her. Pausing, one foot up on the second step, he turned back. “Don’t look so shocked,” he said, a flicker of amused spite now in his eyes. “You don’t fool me a bit with your pretended show of disgust. I happen to know you wouldn’t throw Potter out yourself if he came to visit _you_.” He leaned very close, his voice warm on her face. “But he won’t,” he whispered, and there was an undertone of triumph in his low voice. “He’s in love with _me_.” Then he was gone, taking the steps again two at time.

Pansy watched him go, the truth registering suddenly and slowly both at once, shock rolling in like ponderous waves behind swiftly peeling layers of realization, and the tears she had known would come began before she even reached her door. She shut the door behind her quietly and leaned against it, closing her eyes, letting the hot tears spill unchecked.

Somehow . . . she should have known, or at least guessed, in all the years of rebuffs, that he was gay. But she hadn’t. Had never even considered it, believing it was just Draco’s nature to be cold, believing that she understood him better than anyone else. Believing in time that he would see that, would finally see her. Why hadn’t he told her instead of letting her humiliate herself chasing him? He and Potter had probably had a good laugh over that.

Then her face flamed as she recalled what he had said last. There was something familiar about the words, as if she remembered them from somewhere, but the memory was thin and fleeting and impossible to catch. She tossed her head in denial, and dashed the elusive thought from her mind. _So what_!? she thought. Every girl she knew had a secret crush on either Harry Potter or Draco Malfoy, or both. So what if she had harbored a very small and far-from-serious crush on Potter. It was Draco she wanted, had always wanted . . . Then the thought of the two of them together crashed in on her . . .

_Love_ , Draco had said, and she was forced to acknowledge that indeed, love was what she had seen in his face tonight coming up the stairs, and she knew now why she had never seen it before. And she knew something else too. She hadn’t been mistaken about hearing those earlier quiet footsteps on the stairs. Potter was up there now, with Draco, and they . . . oh God, she didn’t want to think about what they might be doing.

Resolutely, she brushed the tears from her bitter face and walked to her desk to take out parchment and quill. Lucius Malfoy, she decided, might be very interested to know what his son was up to, and most especially, who he was with.

* * * * * 

Draco slipped in the door of his room and closed it behind him. The lamps were out so the room was dark, the low firelight giving him just enough light to see. “Harry?”

“Here,” said a quiet voice from the bed. “I got ready for bed while I was waiting for you.”

“I just did something . . . unexpected,” said Draco as if quite surprised at himself. He walked over to the bed, beginning to undo the buttons of his dress robe. “I just told Pansy about us – the truth.”

Harry was sitting up, leaning back against the headboard, his knees drawn up under the blankets. The dress robes he’d worn were laid neatly on the end of the bed. “I was afraid she’d be waiting for you,” he said. “She came out of her room just after I passed her door – I think she heard me coming up the stairs. I had to stop and take off your boots before I could go the rest of the way up.”

Draco sat on the edge of the bed, his robe partly unbuttoned, and grinned at Harry conspiratorially. “She actually thought I was serious about that sixth-year – I couldn’t let her go on believing such a revolting thing.”

Laughing lightly, Harry said, “I thought that was the whole point of going with those girls – so people would think we were with them.” Then he smiled wryly. “I’m sure she was even less pleased to find out you were really with me.”

“Yes,” laughed Draco, glad to have gotten the proper degree of shock out of at least one person. “She wouldn’t believe it at first.”

“I wish I could have warned you she was out there.”

Draco stood up and pulled the robe off over his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, unconcerned, as he went to hang it up in his wardrobe. “I can handle Pansy.” He came back to the foot of the bed and gathered up the robes Harry had worn, then stood still for a moment. “There’s something else I didn’t expect . . .” he said, hesitating. “It felt really good . . . to tell her about us.”

Harry smiled at Draco. Then an unsettling thought occurred to him. “Do you think she’ll tell anyone else?” he asked. “My friends have all agreed to keep our secret.”

Draco shrugged slightly and went back to the wardrobe to hang up Harry’s robes. “This situation would embarrass her too, if she told.” He grinned at Harry. “After all, she’s been hounding me for four years, and just found out she was barking up the wrong kind of tree. She’s angry right now, but I don’t think she’ll tell anyone.” He finished getting undressed down to his boxers, then walked to the bathroom door and paused there. “Anyway, I don’t care so much now . . . about who knows,” he said, his expression thoughtful as he looked at Harry. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The bathroom door closed behind Draco and after a moment Harry heard water running. He leaned his head back against the headboard and stared at the closed door, mulling over Draco’s last words. That was rather surprising, he thought, that Draco didn’t mind if people knew about them now. But it was nice. Harry smiled and looked down again at the ring he was wearing.

While he’d waited for Draco to come up, he’d sat here turning it around and around on his finger, marveling at how amazingly fine and delicate it was, at the incredible detail, at the startling fact that he was wearing it in the first place. The ring, and the magic spell they’d cast with the dance tonight, added up to something quite serious in Harry’s mind – that same question, in fact, that he’d thought so hard about last night. Now, more than ever, he wanted to talk to Draco about their future.

And he wanted to know too, what these things had meant to Draco. He remembered well what Draco had said the first night Harry had come up here – _“I wanted to wait until I loved someone, until someone loved me.”_ That was true now – the words had been said, they had danced a binding spell of the old magic together, and Harry wore Draco’s ring – what more was he waiting for? Tonight, Harry wondered, after all of this, would Draco still want to wait for the end of the game?

So when Draco came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Harry was full of questions and important things to say. But when Draco slipped into bed to sit beside him, wearing only boxers, his bare shoulder and knee brushing against Harry’s, skin soft on skin, the words seemed to evaporate into a hush of expectation and wonder and anticipation. He felt particularly keyed up tonight by Draco’s presence – an aftereffect of everything they’d done tonight – so he sat still, trying to suppress his nervous excitement, and waited to see what Draco would do.

Draco turned to Harry, gazed at him for second and shook his head slightly. “These have to go,” he said in a low, teasing voice as he reached out and took Harry’s glasses off. He folded them carefully and put them on the night table behind him, turning back to face Harry with approval. “That’s better,” he said, tucking a wayward strand of hair back behind Harry’s ear.

Harry felt his face go warm, from the touch and the intensity in Draco’s eyes. He wanted to lie down with Draco to talk, the way they had before, holding each other, sharing that deep sense of comfort, but the way Draco was making him feel tonight, he didn’t think that would be a good idea. Not if he was going to keep his promise not to push Draco about waiting until the end of the game.

He broke the eye contact, and noticed the glimmer of silver around Draco’s neck, and saw with a small inner thrill that Draco was still wearing the pendant. It hung below the hollow at the base of his throat, just above his heart, like a gathered gleam of reflected light, elegant against his skin. Harry touched it gently, found it was warm. “This looks nice on you,” he said, a bit of a catch in his voice.

“Yes,” said Draco softly, taking Harry’s left hand, lacing their fingers together on the bed between them, turning Harry’s hand up so that the ring showed. “And this looks nice on you.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Harry. “I can’t stop looking at it.” And it wasn’t just the physical beauty of the ring that entranced him – each time he looked at it, he could hear Draco’s voice saying, _“I wanted it to mean that we belong together.”_ “It means a lot to me,” said Harry seriously, recalling the important things he wanted to talk about tonight.

But Draco was leaning into him, and Harry turned his face to meet Draco’s kiss. It was a kiss very like the kiss they had shared at the end of dancing the _Ti’kira_ , tender and intense all at once, with a promise of something more that sent an excited shiver through Harry. But there was a hint of reservation in it that Harry felt too, and that reminded him of other questions, and of what they needed to finish. He pulled slowly out of the kiss and met Draco’s eyes. “It’s your turn in the game,” he said.

“That can wait,” Draco demurred, gently but firmly, giving Harry’s hand a squeeze. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I do,” said Harry, a vague sense of perplexity stirring in him again at this evasion. “But, I want to finish the game too. Before you go home. We only have tomorrow.”

“I know,” said Draco noncommittally, looking down, breaking the eye contact.

And Harry was left hanging, face to face with another of Draco’s inexplicable avoidances, and with the promise he’d made to himself last night not to press this issue. A long moment of silence stretched out between them while Harry waited to see if Draco would say anything else.

“I’m too tired for any more chess tonight,” said Draco finally, looking up again at Harry. “But we don’t need to play the game to talk – not anymore.”

Harry searched Draco’s mist-gray eyes, not sure what he was looking for, finding only sincerity. “I know,” he said with an inward sigh, knowing he had to give in and let it go, hoping they would still have time to finish the game tomorrow. He looked down at their clasped hands, trying to hide his disappointment and gather his previous thoughts.

When Harry didn’t say anything else for a moment, Draco spoke again quietly. “You said you did a lot of thinking last night . . .”

“Yes,” said Harry, but now that it was time to tell it all, he was unsure where to start. Draco was rubbing his thumb lightly over the back of Harry’s hand, and Harry could see the glitter of tiny white sparkles glowing faintly against his own skin. “Well, for one thing,” he said slowly, “I thought about this.” He leaned over and stroked Draco’s arm lightly with his other hand, watching with renewed awe as a shimmer of golden sparks followed his fingers. “These sparks,” he said, “must mean something. Something important maybe.” He looked up, met Draco’s eyes. “And it’s never happened with Cho or anyone else,” he added. “Only with you.”

“Maybe you just couldn’t see it yet,” suggested Draco. “And now that you’ve been studying auras, you can.”

“No, I don’t think so – it’s not something I’ve studied about. This is something about us. I saw our magical auras joining when I did the healing spells with you the last time . . . and that’s not supposed to happen.”

Draco’s brows furrowed slightly in thought. “Auras joining might explain what happened to me when you transfigured that snowball,” he said. “I felt it, like my strength was drained for a few seconds.”

Harry frowned, suddenly worried. “You didn’t tell me that.”

With a slight shrug, Draco dismissed Harry’s concern. “It was only a second or two, then I was fine. We didn’t have a chance to talk about it until now.”

That was definitely something they should not ignore. “We need to find out why this is happening,” said Harry decisively. “After the holidays, I think we should go to Professor Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey and tell them what’s going on.”

“What’s happening with us isn’t as important as you finding out about the wandless magic you can do,” Draco pointed out. “I think you should talk to them about that.”

Harry nodded. “I will. I’ll talk to them about both things.” He lapsed into silence for a moment, still worried about what Draco had told him, and not quite sure how to begin the next, and much more important question he wanted to talk about.

Silence stretched between them for a moment, shifting shadows from the low fire flickered across the foot of the bed. “You said that was one thing,” said Draco finally, his voice low, warm. “So there must be something else.”

“There is,” said Harry, and paused. “I thought about . . . what you said the other night,” he started hesitantly. “You asked me a question. About getting married . . . and having kids . . . You asked if I had thought about what I would be giving up to be with you. I never really answered you.”

“You don’t have to . . .”

“I want to,” insisted Harry. “You told me to think about it . . . and I did. I thought about it a lot.”

He paused again, seeking the right words. “What we did tonight . . .” he said after a moment, “that dance . . . was real for me. You said you would never dance that with anyone else . . . and I can’t believe,” he stated with quiet certainty, “that I ever will either.” Then anticipating Draco’s protest, he added, “I know what you said I should do, and I know we can’t really plan anything yet, but I’ve thought about what I hope will happen . . .”

He looked down at their hands, fingers laced together, the ring he wore now a symbol of what they felt together. “I don’t want to be with anyone else, Draco,” he said softly, looking back up. “Getting married doesn’t matter so much to me, and I don’t care what other people’s expectations are, or if people think I should be with a girl, or not be with a Malfoy. I just want us to be together . . . live together . . . if we can, if you agree. And I still want to work with you, like I said before.” He squeezed the hand he held, felt the firm warmth, the reassurance of Draco’s fingers tightening on his in response. “Do you think you might . . . want to do that . . . live with me, I mean?”

Draco had his head turned to the side, to look at Harry while he spoke, but now he faced forward and closed his eyes, a lump forming in his throat. He really shouldn’t answer, shouldn’t encourage Harry in these impossible hopes. “We already agreed how unlikely that would be,” he said quietly, sadly.

“Yes,” said Harry in a low voice. “I know.” He studied Draco’s withdrawn expression for a second, then sighed and turned away too, to face his knees. With his right hand resting on his upraised thigh, he traced the seam in the quilt with his thumb. “I just wanted to know if you would . . . want to,” he said finally.

The forlorn tone in Harry’s voice went straight to Draco’s heart, and wrung the truth from him in spite of his intention to discourage this. “Harry,” he said with a tenderness he couldn’t hide, “I just danced _Ti’kira_ with you . . . and for me, it was absolutely real. Of course I would want to live with you. I can’t imagine,” he added solemnly, “I would ever want anything else.” He turned his head, facing Harry again, his eyes serious, intent, contrite. “It’s just that I try not to think about the future.”

Harry looked up, his heart filling, elated at Draco’s words, and then saddened a little by the last statement. “I’m pretty sure Professor Dumbledore is going to ask you to stay here and teach,” he coaxed, refusing to be discouraged. “If we both have to stay here after graduation, do you think they’ll let us share a room? This room, maybe?” He reached back over and laid his hand on Draco’s arm. “I like this room.”

Draco smiled at that, lured for a moment into Harry’s wishful thinking. “You continue to impress me with your shocking ideas,” he teased back. “We’d be quite the scandal, you know. Unmarried teachers living together right here at the school.” He gave a short laugh. “I’d like that.”

Harry grinned briefly at Draco’s amusement, glad to have gotten a more positive reaction finally, then spoke again, more seriously. “And when the war is over . . . and _if_ it’s possible . . .” he said, adding the emphasis for Draco’s benefit, “we could get a big house together . . .”

Draco sighed to himself. If things were different, he would have loved to hear Harry talk like this, with himself included as a definite part of Harry’s future, but he also remembered that Harry had told him he’d talked like this to Cho, the night they’d slept together, and had felt like a fool afterwards, when she’d left him. He really shouldn’t let it go on. Harry had trailed off just now, as if he were thinking, or finished talking. “Was that all you wanted to talk about?” asked Draco hopefully.

“No, there’s more,” said Harry softly. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know how you’ll like this next bit, though.” He shifted down a little in the bed and leaned against Draco, wanting to be closer, though still mindful of the promise he’d made.

Draco let go of Harry’s hand and threaded his arm around behind Harry’s waist, leaning into Harry too. “Go on, then,” he said, his mouth now right beside Harry’s ear.

Harry closed his eyes, just for a second; it felt so nice to have Draco’s arm around him, the comfort of being held bolstering his confidence for what he was about to say. He would just have to try to ignore the warm allure of Draco’s body pressed all along his side, and the slender hand that lay against the bare skin at his waist like a sliver of fire.

He took a deep breath and paused, gathering his thoughts. “The reason we need to get a big house,” he said quietly, “is . . . I want to have kids.” He felt Draco tense in surprise against him, but went on, determined now. “I thought about this a long time. I don’t want to give that up – can’t give that up.” Turning his head, he met Draco’s startled gray eyes and explained. “I never knew my parents, never had a family that loved me. I’ve always looked forward to having my own family – to having children of my own. It’s just something that’s very important to me . . . and I thought, maybe, of a way we might do that.”

Draco looked askance at Harry, a little shaken by this rather unexpected revelation. He wasn’t at all sure he was ready to know how Harry thought they might have children. “I am _not_ going to agree to share you with some girl just so you can make babies, if that’s what you had in mind,” he said.

“No, of course not,” said Harry, a little taken aback himself that Draco had jumped to that conclusion.

“How, then?” asked Draco, completely mystified, and if truth be told, a little horrified, since this was not something he’d ever considered.

“Well, _if_ we’re together,” said Harry, “we can’t actually have kids of our own . . . so I want to adopt. I was an orphan myself – so I know what it’s like. And I’m sure that there will be children who need homes after this war is over. If I can . . .” his voice trailed off for a second. “. . . if I’m still around . . . I want to find the ones that have nowhere else to go, and give them a home . . . with us.” He paused, then went on, his voice holding out a tentative hope. “Do you think you could want that, too?”

For a moment, Draco hesitated. But Harry was not asking him for promises, or if he believed their future would be like this. Draco didn’t have to resort to a half-truth to answer Harry’s question – he could give Harry this answer with complete honesty. For even though he couldn’t possibly see himself living with a houseful of kids, he believed it would never happen, and he was glad that Harry had a dream for the future to hold onto that didn’t depend on them being together. He wanted Harry to keep this dream, hoped with all his heart it would come true for him, that Harry wouldn’t be alone. “More than anything,” he said softly, sincerely.

“You do?” asked Harry, surprised and touched to the heart. He shifted, turning so that he was facing Draco more directly, and laid his hand over Draco’s hand that rested on the quilt over Draco’s stomach. “I didn’t think you would,” he said.

“I would want _you_ to,” Draco clarified. “Whatever plans you have, that’s what I want.”

“No, not plans,” Harry sighed. “Just wishes.”

There was a long moment of silence. “Harry, love,” Draco said very gently, trying again to get Harry off the subject of their future, “it all sounds wonderful, but . . . it’s been a long day and I didn’t sleep well last night . . .”

“You didn’t have more nightmares about your father, did you?” asked Harry, all other thoughts, for the moment, abandoned in concern. But, oh God, did Draco just call him “love”? His heart had skipped a beat at that.

“I had dreams,” said Draco. “One in particular was very upsetting and strange – I couldn’t get back to sleep afterwards. I don’t remember much of it, but it wasn’t about my father.”

“I wish I’d been here last night,” said Harry, still regretting the impulsiveness that had resulted in their separation the night before. “But I can do the sleep spell for you tonight, if you want me to.”

“Would you do both of them?” asked Draco.

“Sure.” Harry still felt keyed-up, but Draco, he noticed now, did look tired. Doing the spells would be good for both of them, relaxing Harry and making Draco feel better. “C’mon,” he said, his voice quiet, caring. “I’ll do them now, so you can get to sleep.” He moved away, sitting up, to give Draco room to lie down. “We can talk more tomorrow.”

Draco settled himself on his back, arms crossed loosely over his stomach, flaxen hair fanned out, golden in the shadowed firelight that fell across his pillow. With relief and then anticipation in his eyes, he watched while Harry lay down next to him, facing him, and readied himself to cast the spells.

This magic that Harry could do thrilled Draco. It was so rare, so extraordinary, and to be part of it, to feel it fill him, running through him like sunlight on clear water, was incredible. It made him forget that darkness had ever existed. It made him more than willing to give up his heart, his life, and offer them with humble gratitude to the wondrous magical being who was Harry Potter. And there would never be anyone else, Draco knew with irrevocable certainty, no one else who would ever make him feel something like that. Not ever. It was only Harry, and Harry alone, he had ever wanted.

Closing his eyes, Harry turned his awareness deep into himself, attuning to his steady heartbeat, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing, finding and centering himself in the magic within him. Awareness altered around him. Outside of him the room vibrated with energy seen and unseen: fire and flickering shadow, light and air and heat and magic weaving subtly together. Magic coursed through him, filling him, streaming out in all directions from the center below his heart, up through his throat to the top of his head, down to his groin, and out through his arms to his hands, like the gently shining rays of a star.

Harry opened his eyes, ready to cast the first spell, and found Draco gazing back at him. He raised up on one elbow and looked down at Draco. Love and anticipation were kindling in the gray eyes, and Harry’s heart skipped and raced, a thrill of exhilaration shivering through him. Placing his hand on Draco’s chest, he said the words of the calming spell, and immediately felt the auras of their magic blur, linking, melting together.

And deep within that connection, he sensed a new bond between them, the binding of a heart-spoken vow, and knew it to be the _Ti’kira_ magic they had done.

A feeling rose in him then, both sad and joyful, and he wished fervently that the future hopes he had for them would come true somehow, that nothing would happen to separate or keep them apart. Wishes were all they had right now . . . but . . . then he remembered what Draco had said . . . that he tried not to think about the future, and Harry was moved to ask one last question. “Don’t you ever wish for anything, Draco?” he whispered.

Draco felt the magic stirring inside him, a deep sense of calm and peace filling him. He looked up and met Harry’s eyes at the question, felt the magic flow between them like a silken current of electricity. “The only thing I ever . . . truly wished for,” he said, his voice muted by emotion, “was for you to love me.”

Magic flooded through them both, the peace of the spell that Harry cast, the love of the _Ti’kira_ binding, the emotions welling up in both of them at Harry’s question and Draco’s answer, spilling, pooling together, overflowing.

“I do love you,” whispered Harry. “Very much.”

Their eyes locked, vivid emerald and velvet gray, and they were one . . . together . . .

“Whatever else happens, Harry . . . promise me you won’t forget . . .”

. . . barriers down, boundaries crossed, hearts joined . . .

“. . . that I love _you_.”

. . . magic surging and blending between them, their senses and emotions united in one mutually shared reflection and echo of each other.

Harry leaned close, his hand trailing up to trace a shimmering caress over Draco’s cheekbone, his gaze unwavering. “I promise,” he said.

Then Draco’s arms were pulling Harry down, a tide of need greater than his self-imposed abstinence taking him over, and Harry bent his head, his mouth finding Draco’s. Their eyes closed, and the focus of their bonding became this kiss, and in it was every promise and hint of promise they had given and found in each other. Magic ignited in their touch, set them on fire.

Desire swept through Harry like the slow shiver of heat lightning across a breathless summer sky. And almost instantly, he felt Draco shiver in answer beneath him. Both hearts pounded together, pulse sang in resonating counterpoint, and Harry fell, heart-first and anchorless, into the whirlpool of Draco’s emotions, awareness swimming in a deep spinning vortex of love and desire.

Harry felt that desire tremble through Draco as if through his own body, throbbing along every nerve ending, crying out for him not to stop here. He pulled out of the kiss, shaken, overcome with his need and Draco’s and began to press urgent kisses, like warm insistent questions, down the side of Draco’s face and neck. “Draco?” he whispered. _Love? Oh, . . . please . . . will you let this happen now? Will you let me love you?_ And he felt Draco’s low, answering hum of pleasure vibrate through them both.

Draco moaned softly and arched up under Harry, pressing hard against him, wanting this, responding to Harry’s desire, for a long, searing, timeless moment lost in the power of their shared passion. Then memory surfaced, struggled up, recalling Draco to himself, until regret and his bitter, but determined need to protect Harry from this reclaimed him, and one word, a breath only, escaped as if in answer to Harry’s unspoken thought.

“No.”

And everything shattered.

Harry rolled away from Draco and laid on his back, not touching him, eyes closed, biting down on his lower lip, reeling from the abrupt reversal of Draco’s emotions – emotions he had experienced as if they were his own. He was completely aroused. Molten liquid seemed to be swirling through his gut. He could hear Draco’s quickened breathing so close, could still feel their hearts racing fast together. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, searching for the peace they had lost in passion, waiting for the arousal to subside.

They lay next to each other for a few minutes, not talking, not touching, both stunned by the feelings they still shared, both speechless in the aftermath of what had happened. Gradually, the connection between them began to fade as the magic dissipated.

Harry felt Draco move then, and a hand slipped into his, lacing fingers, squeezing.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice shook slightly. “Are you okay?”

There was a hint of worry in the tone that should have reminded Harry of what was important here. He took another deep breath. “I’m okay,” he whispered back, but there was a distinct overlay of angry dismay in his voice.

Harry let go of Draco’s hand and sat up, legs pulled up to his chest, his arms folded across the tops of his knees, his head bowed. He felt disoriented and upset. _How can you ask me if I’m okay?_ he wanted to shout. _I_ was _okay . . . until you. . . ._

But he wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, or whose fault it was, except that he’d been fine until Draco had pulled him down and the magic he had started to do had gotten far out of his control. He _was_ sure of one thing though – that Draco was definitely not telling him something. He’d briefly caught a strong impression from Draco, just before Draco had stopped them – a deep sense of regret and . . . protectiveness perhaps. _Protect me from what?_

He looked over at Draco. Draco had thrown one arm over his eyes, and the line of his mouth looked thin and taut and hurt.

Harry’s heart constricted at that, and he realized that he had lost the connection to Draco’s feelings now, and that the separation hurt more than the hurt feelings had. Suddenly he remembered that he had promised two things, to wait until the end of the chess game and not to press Draco about it. No matter whose fault it was, he had come very close to letting Draco down on both.

“Draco,” he called quietly. He gently pulled Draco’s arm away from his eyes. Draco kept his eyes closed and Harry felt another heart-wrench at that. Leaning over, he kissed one eyelid, needing very much to see what expression was in those shuttered gray eyes. “P-K?” He kissed Draco’s mouth, just a light feather touch of a kiss, and said the words he should have said earlier. “Are _you_ okay?” he asked, then gazed down at the pale, tight face, waiting.

Draco took a deep breath and finally opened his eyes, looking back at Harry for a long moment before he spoke. “You were angry,” he said. “I felt it.” But along with the distress, there was a hint of quiet wonder in his tone.

Harry didn’t answer right away, several thoughts and feelings circling through his mind. “If you felt that,” he said at last, his voice constricted, fighting through the emotion, “then you also know why. Because if you felt that, then you felt everything else. And _I_ felt how much you wanted to, but you still said no.”

“And I told you, it’s not that I don’t want to.”

“Draco, I danced _Ti’kira_ with you. I’m wearing your ring. You know how I feel about you and that I _am_ sure. What else are we waiting for?”

“We just can’t – not yet.”

Harry sighed. He wanted desperately to ask why again. But he couldn’t. Because Draco had trusted him and he shouldn’t be making an issue of it, after telling Draco he would wait more than once, after promising himself he would respect that. Because he’d said and done enough already, and still Draco hadn’t changed his mind. And because this was not what he wanted to be happening. The incredible feelings they had shared seemed lost, in ashes now, and Harry wanted that back. More than anything else, he wanted back the feeling of comfort they could give each other, needed from each other.

He reached out finally and touched Draco’s shoulder lightly, amazed again at the shimmer of sparks his fingers created. “Draco, it doesn’t matter,” he said earnestly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. The magic just got overwhelming – I lost control of it.”

“No,” said Draco, barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who lost control.” He closed his eyes again for a moment. “You had every right to be angry.”

“I’m only trying to understand,” said Harry, still hopelessly puzzled, but wanting to get past it. Draco looked back up at him, gray eyes contrite, and Harry accepted the unspoken apology, returning Draco’s gaze with a small wry smile. “I guess we shouldn’t kiss while I’m doing these spells . . . well, unless . . . we want this to happen,” he said. He hesitated, then said honestly, and not a little wistfully, not able to give up entirely, “I hope we will . . . want this to happen . . . someday.”

_Tomorrow_ , he thought.

Draco’s eyes went misty and sad, as if he wished he could promise that but didn’t dare. “Do you think you can still do the sleep spell,” he said instead, “if I kiss you goodnight now, before you start?”

There was just enough of a teasing tone in Draco’s voice this time to let Harry know things were all right between them. He smiled and laid down, leaning up on one elbow. “I think so,” he said, leaning closer, kissing Draco once, lightly.

Draco took a deep, somewhat ragged breath and settled himself next to Harry. “I’m ready,” he said, looking up expectantly at Harry.

Centering himself again, Harry prepared to do the sleep spell. “See you in the morning,” he said softly, just before he laid his hand on Draco and whispered the words of the spell. Then he watched, fascinated, as Draco closed his eyes and relaxed into sleep under the touch of his fingers.

_Relaxed_ , Harry thought, studying the sleeping face before him. There was something missing now in that face, some ever-present hint of tension that he could recognize now only by its absence while Draco slept. _He’s never really relaxed except when I do these spells._ And Harry felt a surge of gratitude for this gift he had, that he was able to give Draco this.

He lay propped up on one elbow gazing down at Draco’s sleeping face for a very long time. He loved every line and curve of it, the bow-curve of the upper lip, impish even in sleep, the tawny arch and dusky curve of brow and lash, the straight line of the nose that curved under just so at the end. Slowly, and oh so lightly, he brushed a stray lock of pale hair back from Draco’s forehead, his fingers casting little swirling sparkles of gold light into the shadow of his hand.

Shifting down a little under the bedcovers, Harry laid down on his back and stared at the ceiling, thinking. Tomorrow – they must finish the game. It had to be tomorrow – if he had to let Draco go home, he didn’t want him to go like this – without making love to him.

Somehow that seemed so important to Harry, and not at all for the sake of sex. He was very much in love. What if something did happen to Draco, and Harry never got to share that with him? It was a possibility he didn’t want to consider. It would break his heart, he knew, beyond repair.

And with that thought, he suddenly realized that this must have been what Cho had felt. For the first time, he could fully understand it, and forgiveness crept into his heart for what she had done.

He turned his head and looked at Draco, then very gently eased one arm under Draco’s shoulders and pulled him close. Draco stirred in his sleep, turning over onto his side and settling closer against Harry, his hand coming to rest on Harry’s chest, fingertips just below the hollow of Harry’s throat.

Harry closed his eyes and let the simple feeling of comfort and belonging that came from holding Draco in his arms wash through him. The now familiar low musical hum surrounded them, peaceful, lulling, and Harry felt it soothing the questions from his mind. He resisted it for a moment, then put his thoughts and hopes for tomorrow aside, and allowed the cherished solace of Draco’s touch to drift him away from all of it into sleep.

* * * * * 

They were affectionate, but subdued, with each other as they woke and got dressed for the day. Harry watched Draco when he wasn’t looking, uncertain what to say. Today was their last day before Draco went home and Harry wasn’t sure what to do. He desperately wanted to finish the chess game, but Draco was making no effort to do so and Harry was reluctant to push him – at least not before breakfast.

Last night, it seemed he’d been much more certain what he wanted to do. After they ate breakfast and came back up to the room, maybe he would know what to do then. But pinning Draco down on anything, he was finding out, was like trying to catch a will-o’-the-wisp.

Harry was waiting by the door, ready to put on his Invisibility Cloak so they could go down to breakfast, when the tap-tapping came at the window. Draco, sitting in his chair by the fire, putting on his boots, looked up with an apprehensive expression that he immediately concealed.

“Sounds like you have an owl,” said Harry.

Draco stood up and faced Harry, his face appearing calm, unconcerned. “I guess you should go ahead,” he said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” asked Harry, picking up something in Draco’s tone of voice that worried him. “I can wait.”

“No,” said Draco, coming over to kiss Harry before he left. “It’s fine. I’ll see you down there.”

* * * * * 

Pansy was not as stupid as Draco thought. She had told herself so last night when she’d had her brilliant idea, and congratulated herself now again this morning when her little scheme worked perfectly. Draco may have set a counterspell so she couldn’t put an alarm ward on the stairs outside _his_ door, but nothing had stopped her from setting another alarm ward late last night on the stairs going down from her own door. And since Draco couldn’t come down without going past her room . . . She grinned deviously.

She intended to speak to him first thing this morning as he went down to breakfast, and wanted to catch him alone. There was, of course, the possibility that he and Potter would come down together, but she doubted it. Draco was still being secretive about this relationship or he wouldn’t have pretended to go with that girl to the Yule Ball. Quite logically, Pansy had concluded that they would be cautious about being seen together. A moment ago, her ward had gone off – and just as she’d guessed, only one person had come down the stairs from Draco’s room.

Pansy smirked to herself. If only one person had come down, that one had to be Potter. Draco wouldn’t have come down alone and left Potter up there. She slipped outside her door, a rolled parchment in her hand. Draco would probably follow in a few moments, and when he did, she would be waiting.

* * * * * 

Draco opened one side of the window and Lucifer stepped in, feathers ruffled from the cold. “Ah, a note from dear old Dad,” he said scornfully. “And before breakfast. How touching.” The owl blinked its huge, baleful, red-orange eyes resentfully at him and held out its leg. A smallish piece of parchment was attached, which Draco removed with unsteady fingers – fingers that betrayed his anxiety even if his words had not. He shooed the owl out, closed the window, and took the message over to his desk to read.

  


> _Draco,_
> 
> _Why haven’t I heard from you? I gave you specific instructions in my last letter.  
>  Or did you forget how to read it? I expect an immediate answer._
> 
> _L.M._

  


The contempt in that third sentence was so intense, Draco could practically hear his father’s voice spitting it out. But it took him a pounding heartbeat or two to realize what his father was talking about. He’d only had one letter from his father, and then the ring had come without any letter . . . or had it? Oh . . . shit. _Did you forget how to read it?_ Oh, God.

Draco looked up. Lying discarded to one side of his desk were the two papers he’d taken from the ring. One of them had wrapped the entire packet and he ignored that one. The other, however, had been folded on the inside and had, he thought, been blank. But with a sinking feeling, Draco knew. His father had been absolutely correct. He _had_ forgotten – not _how_ to read a secret family message – he’d forgotten even to look for it.

A vague feeling of dread was creeping into his gut as he picked up the discarded paper and carried it over to the fireplace. _Specific instructions . . ._ He didn’t like the sound of that. Taking out his wand, he held the paper over the fire, just above the flames, whispered a spell, and watched with grim dismay as his fears were confirmed.

Letters and then sentences began to appear in a glowing, fiery script that flowed and flickered over the surface of the paper, as if fire itself wrote upon the page. Then the letters turned soot-black, burned into the paper, and Draco began to read:

  


> _This ring is a valuable Malfoy heirloom. I do not approve of your plan to give_   
> _it to Potter and you will most certainly be held personally liable for its return._   
> _However, since you spoke of using an appropriate spell, I decided to ensure that this_   
> _is done correctly – if we do this, there can be no mistakes. I have cast a will-sapping_   
> _spell on the ring that will act to weaken Potter’s resistance to us. It will not interfere_   
> _with anything you intended to cast on the ring, but I believe this spell is the best, given_   
> _our purpose, and is a spell you are not capable of casting. Let me know immediately_   
> _by return owl when it is you plan to act – I need to make my own plans accordingly –_   
> _and, of course, need I say, destroy this letter at once._
> 
> _L.M._

  


Draco dropped the paper into the fire as if he’d been burned. He hardly noticed as it flamed and disappeared. He didn’t care at all about Lucius’s demands about getting the ring back. As far as he was concerned, it had been his to give, and he intended for Harry to keep it. But the will-sapping spell . . . 

Draco closed his eyes as rage and despair rose up inside him. While it confirmed his guess that his father intended to use the Imperius Curse on Harry, a will-sapping spell was Dark Magic, and far beyond his knowledge to remove. Luckily, it was a slow-acting spell, so in one night the effects would not have been very noticeable, but he couldn’t risk exposing Harry to it for long. And there was only one person he knew of who could help him remove a spell like that. Somehow, he was going to have to get that ring back from Harry and get Dumbledore to remove the spell without arousing their suspicions.

He had already realized he would need Dumbledore’s help with some parts of his plan, and he’d carefully contrived how he could do that – in fact, he had planned to go to him this afternoon. What he’d planned to ask would have seemed reasonable and innocent enough, taken by itself. But what if Dumbledore suspected something now, because of the spell on the ring? Draco couldn’t tip his hand to Dumbledore too soon, before it was too late for him to stop Draco’s plan. Everything depended on that.

He sank down in one of the chairs and closed his eyes, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his hands gripping his elbows. It had been hard for him to go to Dumbledore at the beginning of the year. It had taken all of his nerve, and the amount of pride he’d swallowed had almost made him ill, but it had been necessary. There was no question in Draco’s mind about the headmaster’s power as a wizard. The man might act like a doddering fool at times, but his uncanny perception of things hidden and unspoken had convinced Draco otherwise.

What if Dumbledore saw through him now, because of this?

Draco felt sick. Everything could fall apart. Damn his father to seven levels of bloody hell for interfering! It was a blatant insult to Draco’s competence – it showed quite clearly that his father had no confidence in him or his ability to carry out his own idea. And, he thought bitterly, ironically it was now this spell on the ring that might jeopardize everything he had so carefully planned. He had to think . . . he could not fail in this _now_ . . .

There was a knock at the door. Draco took a deep breath and willed himself to relax. It was probably Harry, coming back for something, or because he was worried, and Draco couldn’t let him see that he was upset. The knock came again and Draco, hoping he could manage to look calm, went to answer the door.

But it wasn’t Harry. As soon as Draco turned the knob, Pansy barged into the room. She had a piece of parchment in her hand; her face was angry and determined. “I _knew_ you must still be up here,” she said smugly. “But I got tired of waiting for you to come down.” She waved the paper under Draco’s nose. “This,” she said imperiously, cutting off Draco’s annoyed protest, “is a letter to your father. I thought he might be very interested in knowing how . . . involved . . . you’ve gotten with a certain Harry Potter.”

Draco closed the door and crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at Pansy with rising irritation. God, he didn’t have time for this. He needed to figure out what to do about the ring. “Oh, so what,” he snapped dismissively. “I was planning to tell him that tomorrow when I went home. Go on and send it,” he challenged. “I’m sure he’ll be just _thrilled_ to hear from you.”

For a second that brought Pansy up short. She’d fully expected him to want to hide this from his father. But she wasn’t so easily defeated. Not yet. With Slytherin shrewdness, Pansy changed tactics. She might not have realized Draco was gay, but otherwise, she still believed she knew him very well. “Even if you intended for Lucius to know,” she retorted, her chin going up defiantly, “I know you’ll want to tell him yourself, not have him hear about it in a letter from me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. He paused long enough for Pansy to fidget under his icy stare. “Tell me what you want, then,” he said impatiently, cutting through all pretense. “I assume there’s a price – for you not to send it.”

“Of course,” she said nastily. “I want to see Potter hurt and humiliated. Whatever you told Blaise about a plan for him, it can’t be anything bad, since you say you love him. In fact . . .” Pansy paused, a calculating look in her eyes. “I’m guessing you just made that up . . . as an excuse, after he saw the two of you together in Hogsmeade. But that won’t work with me, Draco. I want to see you hurt Potter . . . the way you hurt me. Otherwise, I send the letter.”

Draco stepped close to Pansy and touched her face. His touch was gentle but his eyes were cold, his voice when he spoke was soft and ruthless. “I never gave you any reason to think there would ever be anything between us. Did you really think I could ever love someone as . . . ordinary . . . as you?” 

He leaned closer, close enough to kiss her. “I never meant to hurt you, Pansy,” he said. “Believe me, if I had wanted to hurt you, I would have done a far better job of it than this.” His fingers trailed down her face, dropped to her hand, and calmly removed the paper from her momentarily unresisting grasp. With a disdainful sniff of a laugh, he turned and walked to the fireplace, Pansy’s letter in his hand. He glanced back at her, a scornful smirk on his face, just before he tossed it into the fire.

“That won’t stop me, Draco,” she hissed, a flush of heat rising in her face as she realized how skillfully he’d just played her, how he’d taken advantage of his effect on her. “I can write it again.”

Draco considered, for a moment, the consequences of simply casting another memory spell on her, or better yet, punching her in the nose and _then_ casting the memory spell. But he needed an excuse to get that ring back without Harry knowing the real reason why, and this might be just the ruse he was looking for – one he could blame on someone else. Leave it to Pansy to be the unwitting help he’d needed while she was trying so hard to get back at him with blackmail. It was laughable, really. But he didn’t need her to know that.

He turned back to her, feigning surrender, his expression hard. “You won’t have to,” he said. “You’re right. I want to tell my father this myself.”

Taking the couple of steps over to the table, Draco looked down at the chessboard for a long moment, studying it, giving himself time to think. “If I announce that I’ve been shagging Potter,” he said finally, fixing her with a frosty glare, “and then dump him in front of everyone at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, will that satisfy you?”

Pansy grinned slowly, wickedly. “That would be perfect,” she said. “Especially since afterwards, _you’ll_ have to go crawling to _him_ to apologize and beg him to take you back.”

Then she frowned. “Wait a minute, “she said, a mixture of suspicion and faint hope stirring inside her. “You weren’t already planning to break up with him, were you?”

“No, I was not,” asserted Draco, firmly. “But they won’t know that, will they?” One elegant eyebrow went up in silent conceit. “And like you said, I can make up with him later.”

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” sneered Pansy, her newly budding hope crushed. “What if he doesn’t _want_ you back?”

“You let me worry about that.” Then he smiled at her insolently. “Who wouldn’t want _me_ back?”

She wanted to slap him. Or throw herself at him and kiss him. At the moment, she didn’t know which was more tempting. But she let her anger give her the strength not to make a fool of herself again. “Fine, then,” she said. “When will you do it?”

Draco glanced down at the chessboard again, studying the position of Harry’s pieces. He picked up the white Bishop, the piece Harry had taken with his last move last night, and let it rest in the palm of his hand. _It’s my move._ Then he looked up at Pansy. “I’ll do it now. This morning at breakfast.”

Pansy gave him another sly grin. “I’ll be waiting,” she said, gloating as she turned and went out the door.

Draco set the Bishop back down on the edge on the chessboard, his fingers lingering on it for a moment, then he turned and went to his desk. He picked up the letter he’d received this morning and read it again as he brought it back to the fireplace. Yes, he most certainly did want to tell his father himself. _I want to see the look on his face when I tell him what I’ve done_ , he thought. _He has completely underestimated me . . ._

Slowly, deliberately, he crumpled the letter in his fist. _He has never respected me, but now he will_. Draco dropped the crushed parchment into the fire and watched it ignite, watched the edges wither and blacken and burn away until it fell into the ashes below the logs, the anger in his heart burning with it. Then he went to answer it.

Taking a clean sheet of parchment from the drawer of his desk, Draco wrote back:

  


> _Father,_
> 
> _Please forgive me for not answering your previous letter. I have rarely been  
>  alone and could not risk it. Things are going better than expected. I will  
>  explain everything tomorrow at home._
> 
> _D.M._

  


Folding this letter, he walked to the window and pushed it open. Before he could whistle, Lucifer was there, silent wings outspread, bright eyes sharp. “Told you to wait for it, did he?” mocked Draco. He fastened the letter to the owl’s leg. “Well, you can tell him something from me,” he said under his breath, loathing bitter on his tongue, as the owl took off. “Tell him to go to hell.”

With a vastly irritated sigh, he shut the window and turned to leave the room. God, he was tired of these games. He certainly didn’t feel like eating now, but would have to go down to breakfast anyway. He had to go down and break up with Harry Potter.


	14. Part II — The Game — Chapter 14

  


_You could not give me_  
 _More than you gave me._  
 _Why should there be something in me_  
 _Still discontented?_

_I’ve been a fool to allow_  
 _Dreams to become great expectations_

_But if you hear today_  
 _I’m no longer_  
 _Quite so devoted_  
 _To this affair,_  
 _I’ve been misquoted._

Lyrics from “You and I” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, poking nervously at the remnants of a poached egg and toast on his plate with his fork. Across from him, Seamus was carrying on a loud, animated discussion with Neville and Dean about their Herbology project. They’d received their marks just minutes ago from Professor Sprout and, while not the top marks in the class, they had done quite well. Ginny was sitting with Seamus and seemed to find it interesting as the three boys expounded on the details, but Harry really didn’t care what would happen if a bubotuber was crossed with a _Mimbulus mimbletonia_.

Even if it _did_ allow a pre-diluted form of valuable bubotuber pus to be collected with a single sharp prod to the plant’s stem rather than the previously tedious method of squeezing each boil, the fact that the hybrid would spew revoltingly stinky sap in all directions – sap that smelled like a combination of petrol and rancid manure – was too disgusting to contemplate. Ron, who was sitting next to Harry, seemed to find it disgusting too, and turned away to talk to Hermione about plans for their stay at the Burrow.

At that point, Harry tuned everyone out.

Earlier, when he’d first sat down at the table, Harry had been the center of attention. Everyone had oohed and aahed over his ring, and Seamus had teased him unmercifully. Ron had looked on resignedly and actually managed a slightly approving grin once. Feeling elated and pleased, Harry had watched impatiently for Draco while he ate his eggs and toast. But now the success of the Herbology project had taken over the conversation.

More importantly, however, it had been over half an hour since Harry had left Draco’s room, and Draco hadn’t come down yet. Harry was becoming increasingly concerned and wondering if he should try to go back up to find him, to see that he was okay. If that owl had been from Lucius . . .

Then finally, the doors opened and Draco walked in, making his way to the Slytherin table with his head down, without even a glance in Harry’s direction. This in itself was not that troubling, but Harry was already worried and therefore watched Draco intently, hoping to catch his eye, trying to interpret from his body language what was going on. But Draco only sat down, dished up his breakfast, and ignored everyone, including Harry.

* * * * * 

At the Slytherin table, Draco picked tensely at his breakfast, one eye fixed surreptitiously on Harry and the other on Dumbledore. So far, he had managed to avoid meeting Harry’s questioning glances directly, even though he could practically feel Harry’s growing concern and curiosity from across the room as Harry tried subtly, and unsuccessfully, to get his attention.

He heard Pansy clear her throat meaningfully and he turned to give her an even more meaningfully stifling glare. If he had to make a scene with Harry, he wasn’t about to do it in front of Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers. Even Pansy, he thought with annoyance, should be able to figure that out.

But he didn’t have long to wait. Dumbledore drank the last of his tea and rose to leave the table. McGonagall stood up too, continuing her conversation with the headmaster as she accompanied him out of the hall. It was only a matter of moments before the rest of the staff finished eating and filtered out. Draco got ready to move; he had to time what he was about to do perfectly, and he was going to have to be fast.

The second the doors to the Great Hall closed behind the last teacher, he got to his feet, gave Pansy a very perfunctory and patronizing glance, then strode boldly and purposefully around the House tables to where Harry sat with the Gryffindors. He didn’t have much time – so he was counting a lot on Harry being quick on the uptake. _Please, Harry_ , he thought, taking the last few steps to Harry’s seat. He took a deep breath as Harry, smiling, turned to face him. _Please get this._

“Bishop to F1,” announced Draco in his most sneering tone. His voice was loud enough for Harry’s friends to hear, but not as loud as he’d implied to Pansy he would be. Harry’s friends already knew about them – he had no intention of outing them to anyone else outside that circle, and Pansy could see Harry’s reaction well enough from across the room. It was all he would give her.

There was about half a heartbeat before Harry’s smile faltered and confusion drew his eyebrows into a puzzled frown as he registered the chess move Draco had announced. “Wait,” he said haltingly. That’s not poss – ”

“I’ll have that ring back now, Potter,” demanded Draco, cutting Harry off, his voice still loud enough for Harry’s friends to hear. He held out his hand for it. “You didn’t think I would really _give_ you something like _that_ , did you?”

A very troubled hush settled over that section of the Gryffindor table as Harry’s friends, shocked to silence, waited for Harry’s reply. “But you did,” said Harry quietly, evenly, though his heart was suddenly pounding in his throat.

“Ha!” Draco tossed his head back and laughed contemptuously. “You’re such a fool, Potter,” he said, his voice mocking, full of scorn. “I only wanted to see what it would be like to _shag_ The Boy Who Lived.” He looked down on Harry with all the old infuriating hauteur of their early years plastered across his face. “And now that I have . . .” he drawled, wrinkling up his nose in disgust, “I find I’ve . . . lost interest.” Draco sniffed, his expression shifting into frosty condescension, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Of all the shagging I’ve done Potter,” he added with disdain, “you were, by far, the worst.”

“But we didn’t . . .” said Harry very softly, mostly to himself, thinking furiously now. _And you haven’t!_

Harry stood up to face Draco, questions in his eyes, searching Draco’s eyes for answers. And his breath caught at what he saw in Draco’s eyes, just as it had once before. Memory of another day came flooding back, of the afternoon in the birch grove by the lake, of that moment when Harry had realized that no matter how cool, or aloof, or annoying Draco appeared to be on the outside, in his eyes was the truth.

Now, in spite of the words and the tone of voice and the expression on Draco’s face, in those gray eyes Harry still saw everything he loved, everything he trusted, the complete opposite of what Draco was just telling him. Something wasn’t right . . . and suddenly it hit him. Nothing Draco had said was true! Now – if he could just figure out what it meant – 

Ron jumped up, directly behind Harry, his face turning bright red with anger. “Why you bloody . . . slimy . . . little bastard!” he hissed. He tried to lunge past Harry, going for Malfoy’s throat. But Hermione, her face pale, looking aghast and betrayed, caught his arm. Harry blocked Ron, too, throwing one arm out in front of Ron’s chest to hold him back.

“Don’t bother, Ron,” said Harry, feigning indifference, playing along now, hoping anxiously that he was guessing right about doing that, his eyes still locked on Draco’s to watch for any clues. “He isn’t worth it,” he added coldly, pretending thinly veiled anger.

The momentary spark of approval that Harry read in Draco’s eyes at that, told him most of what he needed to know. He hesitated for a second, then let go of Ron and pulled off the ring. He sensed Ron bristling behind him and heard someone else’s sharp intake of breath. With a feeling like the bottom had just dropped out of his stomach, he set the ring on Draco’s outstretched palm.

Draco closed his fingers over the ring, but caught Harry’s fingers in his grip, and for the briefest second held, and squeezed.

That fleeting pressure told Harry even more.

Then Draco brushed by them all and made his way swiftly to the doors. Once outside the Great Hall, the very instant he hit the corridor, Draco ran for the stairs. He had to catch Dumbledore before the headmaster disappeared into his office.

* * * * * 

Harry stood quite still, immobile with shock and bewilderment, watching Draco stride from the room. It was only after Draco had vanished through the doors out into the entrance hall that Harry finally turned away. But as he did, he noticed that Pansy Parkinson was staring directly at him from the Slytherin table, smirk written all over her face. Suddenly another piece of the puzzle fell into place as Harry remembered that Pansy knew the truth about them. Judging from her gloating, self-satisfied expression, she had been watching Draco’s performance and was clearly reveling in Harry’s troubles. It was almost as if . . . she had known what was going to happen.

Harry sank into his seat and put his head in his hands. He had to think. And it probably wouldn’t hurt, he guessed, for Pansy to think he was upset. _Well, she wouldn’t be wrong_ , he thought, _I_ am _upset_. But there had to be an explanation . . . 

Harry remembered what Draco had asked him the night before – _“Whatever else happens, Harry . . . promise me you won’t forget that I love you.”_ And despite Draco’s actions this morning, he’d seen that love in Draco’s eyes just now, had felt it in that fleeting touch of their fingers on the ring.

Harry felt another gentle touch now on his shoulder.

“Are you okay, Harry?” asked Hermione in a stricken voice.

“Something’s wrong,” said Harry in an undertone.

“I’ll say it is!” said Ron heatedly, dropping into his seat. “You stopped me from killing that slimy bastard!” Then he shuddered. “God, Harry,” he groaned, “he danced _Ti’kira_ with you! I was actually going to apologize to him! I should have known it wasn’t real – ”

“No!” said Harry urgently, from behind his hands. “You don’t understand.” He paused to take a deep breath. He had to be right about this – nothing else made sense. “Is Pansy Parkinson still sitting at the Slytherin table?” he asked.

“She’s just going out the door . . . with Crabbe and Goyle and Zabini,” said Hermione slowly, perplexed by Harry’s question. “Why? What does that matter?”

“Just listen,” said Harry, raising his head to look at his friends. His expression was taut and worried, but determined. “What happened last night _was_ real. Draco didn’t mean anything he said this morning – I’m certain of it.” He gazed around at the circle of worried faces surrounding him and tried to explain. “What Draco said about us . . . shagging . . . wasn’t true.” Harry felt his face go warm, but he ignored that, as well as Seamus’s owl-eyed reaction, and pressed on, thinking out loud. “And that chess move he made – it wasn’t possible. I just took that Bishop . . . and his King is on F1 – so it wasn’t a real move. That means taking back the ring wasn’t real either.”

“I don’t understand,” said Hermione, now even more confused. “What does a chess move have to do with it?”

“Never mind,” said Harry. “It’s just the way we’ve been playing – each move has a . . . meaning.” He ran one hand through his already unruly hair. “But it _must_ be some kind of a hint,” he said, gazing earnestly first at Ron and then at Hermione. “Draco told Pansy about us last night and just now, after Draco left, I noticed she was watching. It looked like she was gloating, so I think she knew what was going on. Maybe she even had a hand in it. But Draco also got an owl just as I left his room this morning . . . that might have been from his father.” He paused. “Something is definitely wrong, but not between me and Draco. I’m afraid he might be in trouble.”

“That’s rubbish, Harry!” protested Ron. “I don’t know how you can still believe – ”

“I know what I know,” insisted Harry, cutting Ron off. “Maybe I can’t explain it well enough, but I know he was faking everything he did this morning.” Harry rose decisively to his feet. “I’ve got to go find him.”

“We’ll come with you,” stated Hermione, standing up too. “In case he _is_ in trouble and you need help. Won’t we, Ron?”

“I’ll say we will,” said Ron vehemently, shooting to his feet. “In case _someone_ needs to be killed.”

“Let us know if we can help,” volunteered Seamus, still looking rather startled and upset but giving Ron a disapproving look. Dean and Neville nodded in agreement. Ginny was biting her bottom lip and looked troubled, but also nodded.

Harry smiled at his friends, feeling somewhat reassured. “Thanks,” he said simply, grateful for their support and willingness to believe him.

They all left the Great Hall, Harry in the lead. At the main stairs, they split up – Ron and Hermione went with Harry to the Slytherin tower, while the group with Seamus went back to the Gryffindor common room, promising to look for Malfoy on the way. But as Harry and his two friends approached the entrance to the Slytherin tower, they could see Zabini, Crabbe and Goyle loitering inside the alcove, blocking the stairs.

“Wait!” whispered Hermione, urgently. She took hold of Harry and Ron and dragged them back against the wall before the Slytherins could see them. She ignored Ron’s muttered complaint and turned directly to Harry.

“I should go talk to them, Harry,” she said, pleading a little, but definitely taking charge. “They probably won’t let you go up there and you don’t want to start a fight. I’m Head Girl and Draco is a prefect. They’ll have to let me go up. Let me see if I can find out what’s going on first. Maybe I can talk Draco into coming down.”

Harry reluctantly agreed, but only conditionally. “I’ve got to talk to him, Hermione,” he said firmly. “Regardless of what you find out, if he won’t come down, I’m going up. I don’t care who is standing in the way.”

Ron’s eyes lit up again with the possibility of a confrontation with the Slytherins and he grinned at Harry. If he couldn’t punch Malfoy, he didn’t mind finding a nearby substitute.

Hermione gave them both stern looks, but she knew she couldn’t stop Harry from trying to go up to talk to Draco. Ron, however, was another story, and she fastened her most stern look on him. “Both of you go back and stay out of sight until I find out what’s going on,” she said. “I’ll come find you as soon as I know something.”

She watched them until they were out of sight down the corridor, then turned and marched resolutely toward the alcove, ready to face the Slytherins. She could overhear their conversation as she walked up.

“How much longer do we have to stand here?” whined Goyle. “I wanted to go to Honeydukes to get stuff to take home to eat over the holidays.”

“Yeah,” agreed Crabbe. “So did I.”

“Just until Pansy comes back down,” said Zabini irritably. “She wanted a chance to talk to Draco and doesn’t want to be interrupted by –” He cut his words off in mid-sentence when he spotted Hermione. Aiming an arrogant smirk at Crabbe and Goyle, he crossed his arms over his chest and planted himself dead center in the middle of the alcove doorway. Crabbe and Goyle did the same on either side of him, effectively blocking any way in.

“Look what we have here,” taunted Zabini, as Hermione came to a stop in front of them. “Something mangy strayed over from Gryffindor.”

Crabbe and Goyle snickered.

Hermione felt her cheeks go warm, but she looked Zabini straight in the eye, undaunted by his heckling. “I have Head Girl business with Malfoy,” she said tartly.

“Well now, isn’t that just too bad,” drawled Zabini. “Malfoy is busy and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

Crabbe snickered again, but Goyle looked puzzled and leaned forward and whispered loudly, “But, I thought it was Pansy that didn’t – ”

Zabini jabbed backwards with his elbow, giving Goyle a swift and very effective memory adjustment straight to the gut.

“Ooof,” said Goyle, his fat cheeks puffing out and his eyes bulging like an inflated fish.

Hermione cleared her throat loudly in annoyance and put her hands on her hips. For a long moment, she just stared at the three of them in silence. Then in her best, most threatening and most intimidating Head Girl Voice, she said slowly, “Unless you three want to spend the rest of the afternoon scrubbing out all the toilets in the Gryffindor dorm . . .”

Zabini’s eyes crossed slightly and his upper lip curled up, but he didn’t budge.

“With . . . your . . . toothbrushes,” added Hermione, enunciating each word, “I suggest you let me by. Now!”

Somebody stifled a gag and Zabini’s confident stance visibly drooped. Crabbe and Goyle seemed to shrink back, slinking away into the shadows of the alcove. But before Zabini could actually move out of her way, footsteps were heard coming down the stairs behind them.

Pansy, obviously quite put out, flounced into the alcove, saying loudly, “I walked all the way up those bloody stairs and he’s not even up there!” She saw Hermione and stopped short. “What do _you_ want?” she demanded huffily, pushing past Zabini to confront the other girl.

“To see Malfoy,” repeated Hermione in her most authoritative tone. “Important Head Girl business.”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “He’s not in his room. I just checked.” She glared at Hermione. “And I don’t know why you have to keep pestering him all the time – after all, he’s not the only prefect in the school.”

“I _‘pester’_ him because by rights he should have been Head Boy,” said Hermione caustically. “And because I trust his judgment a great deal more than that big-headed Ravenclaw idiot who _is_ Head Boy.”

Something shifted in Pansy’s eyes at that, a softening from dislike to grudging approval. “You’ll have to look for him then, if it’s so important. He isn’t here.” A faint expression of concern crossed Pansy’s face. “I don’t know where he went.”

Hermione studied Pansy’s face thoughtfully a moment longer. “If you see him, tell him to come find me,” she said. “I’ll be in the Gryffindor common room, waiting.” She turned on her heel and walked away to find Harry and Ron. Harry was not going to be happy about this.

She found them sitting on the bottom step of the main stairs. Harry jumped up anxiously and came to meet her.

“Did you talk to him?” he asked immediately.

“No. According to Pansy, he isn’t in his room.”

Harry’s eyebrows went up. “And you took _her_ word for it?” he asked in disbelief.

“I heard her say so before she knew I was there,” said Hermione, explaining patiently. “And she was worried herself – I saw it in her face. She didn’t know where he was, either.”

Harry sighed. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, disappointment and concern flooding through him. He looked up at Hermione and Ron with distress and then stubborn determination in his eyes. “I have to go look for him, then.”

Hermione nodded. “I asked Pansy to tell Draco to come find me in the Gryffindor common room if she sees him. So I’ll go wait there.” She paused for a second as if making up her mind about something, then spoke firmly to Harry. “I think you should take Ron with you. I know you trust Draco, and so do I, but you still need to be careful. Maybe he _is_ in trouble and he was trying to warn you with all those false statements this morning.” She looked up at Ron, put a hand on his arm, and took a deep breath. “Just promise me you won’t get into a fight.”

“I’ll do whatever I have to,” protested Ron hotly, “to protect Harry. If that includes killing Malfoy, then . . .” He trailed off at Hermione’s furious, disapproving stare. “Okay, okay,” he said, relenting slightly, “I’ll only kill him if he doesn’t make up with Harry!” Then he turned away mumbling to himself. “God, I must be going mental. I can’t believe I just said that . . .”

Harry hesitated. He really didn’t want to chance another angry confrontation between Ron and Draco, and if they found Draco, he most definitely wanted the conversation to be private. But Hermione, as usual, was probably right. If Draco had been trying to warn him about some kind of trouble, he shouldn’t walk into it alone. He nodded at Ron. “Okay,” he said. “I think we should start with the dungeons.”

Ron groaned at the thought of having to go traipsing around in the dank, gloomy dungeons. “You know,” he grumbled, “if you still had the Marauder's Map, we wouldn't have to go through this – looking all over for that . . . that . . . two-faced ferret.”

“Ron, don’t call him that!” said Harry, offended.

Ron made an annoyed, but repentant face. “I just think it’s really rotten that Dumbledore made you lock it up in Gringotts last year,” he said. “We could have used it.”

“That map was dangerous!” declared Hermione angrily. “I thought so from the first. If someone in league with Voldemort had gotten hold of it . . . no one, particularly Harry, would have been safe. The headmaster was absolutely right to have it locked up! If you ask me, it should have been turned in ages ago and –”

“Stop,” said Harry, exasperated. “Please. There’s no point in arguing about it now.” He looked at Ron. “I’ve got to go. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yes,” said Ron firmly. “I’m not letting you go off alone.”

“Please, both of you, just be careful,” said Hermione quietly, as the boys headed down to the dungeons.

By lunchtime, however, there was no sign of Draco. Ron and Harry had searched the dungeons, even creeping very cautiously down to listen outside Professor Snape’s office. They’d searched all the other classrooms upstairs and the Astronomy Tower. At noon, they’d finally given up and come to the Great Hall to meet Hermione for lunch, hoping Draco would show up there. But to Harry’s increasing distress, the Slytherin never appeared.

At last, when the tables were about to be cleared, Harry, with Hermione’s help, made several sandwiches out of the meat and bread on the table that he wrapped in napkins to pack in his bookbag. “I’m going back to the dorm to get some things,” said Harry, “then I’m going to wait for him in his room. Alone.” He was clearly upset and disheartened, but his voice, now that he’d made up his mind, was steady, and he held up his hand to forestall any argument. “He has to come back there sooner or later. If he shows up first to find you in the common room, you can tell him where I am.”

Hermione silently nodded her agreement. She was quickly becoming ready to help Ron strangle Draco herself for putting Harry through this.

The three walked back to the Gryffindor common room together in depressed silence. When Harry had collected his things, Ron walked back down with him to the bottom of the main stairs in the entrance hall. “Be careful, Harry,” he said quietly. “I’m going to wait here to watch for Malfoy – if he misses Hermione upstairs, I can tell him where you are.”

Harry swallowed at a lump in his throat, very grateful for Ron’s help today. “Thanks,” he said softly. He looked up at Ron’s still angry, but also very concerned expression. “Don’t worry,” he said resolutely. “If he does actually mean to break up with me, with no better explanation than he gave this morning, I’ll kill him myself.”

* * * * * 

It was not quite an hour after lunch when Pansy’s alarm ward went off. She rushed out of her room and called up the stairs when she didn’t see anyone. “Draco?” No one answered and a second later, she called again, louder. “Potter? I know you’re there!”

Harry, already around the turning of the spiral stairs where she couldn’t see him, stopped. He’d passed her door hurriedly, but he was sure he’d been careful not to make any noise . . . Then, too late, he remembered what she’d told Draco in Potions class yesterday morning. _“I set an alarm ward on the stairs outside your door . . .”_ So, she’d obviously done it again.

“He’s not up there!” shouted Pansy.

Harry, infuriated after the miserable morning he’d just spent, threw off the Invisibility Cloak, dropped his bookbag and marched back down the stairs, pulling out his wand. “Where is he, then?” he practically yelled.

“How should _I_ know?” Pansy retorted as Harry appeared, jumping down the last two steps and striding wrathfully across the landing to face her. “I haven’t seen him since . . .” She grinned cattily. “Not since that lovely little breakup scene at breakfast.”

“Parkinson, so help me,” threatened Harry, raising his wand, “I’ll hex your hair to match your scheming green Slytherin heart. What do you know about that?”

Pansy shrank back a step at the sight of Harry’s wand, but her chin came up boldly. “I know everything about it,” she sneered. “He did it for me.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” said Harry roughly. “I know he told you about us – I know you know the truth. What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing really,” she said with an impudent little shrug and a sly grin, “– just a little mild . . . persuasion.”

“Blackmail, you mean,” said Harry curtly. He stuck his wand in her face. “What . . . did . . . you . . . do?”

She held her ground this time. He could threaten her all he wanted, she didn’t care. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe he would actually hex her, and she was certainly not going to be so easily intimidated. But she paused, stung by the situation. It was so terribly unfair. She’d lost Draco, and now Potter was trying to steal even this morning’s little bit of triumph from her by being so belligerent about it. “He hurt me, Potter,” she said defensively, suddenly quite angry herself. “I just wanted to –”

“What? Hurt him back?” Harry looked down at her, vastly aggravated and impatient. “Or was it _me_ you wanted to hurt?”

“Yes, _you_ ,” snapped Pansy, glaring. “Not him. Never him.”

“Well, it didn’t work,” declared Harry. “I knew he didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, good for you,” she said heatedly. “But you _don’t_ know where he is! You’ve been upset and worried all morning thinking something was wrong. Your friends are all stirred up. I’d say it worked just fine.” She looked Harry straight in the eyes, meaning to be insolent and fierce, matching her anger to his, daring him to make good on his threat. But . . .

_Oh . . ._

Her breath caught suddenly and her heart tripped, stumbling abruptly into traitorous territory. _Oh, God . . ._ His eyes were so green, so clear and vibrant and vivid with anger, so . . . arresting. She felt a slow heat creep into her face . . . and understood in that moment exactly how Draco might have discovered love in the midst of all his furious sparring with this boy. Harry Potter, in a face-to-face challenge like this, was riveting, electric, thrillingly self-possessed, with an undercurrent of raw strength and power virtually sparking in the air around him – everything that would attract Draco.

Everything that she was not. Draco’s words from this morning came back to her, the truth they contained undeniable. _“Did you really think I could ever love someone as . . . ordinary . . . as you?”_

Her angry words faltered and died and melted into something unexpected. “I just want to know one thing,” said Pansy, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat, conscious of the fact that if she’d intended to be defiant, she was failing spectacularly. “Do you really love him?”

“I love him,” said Harry, his words precise, emphatic. “More than you could imagine.”

Pansy turned her face away, biting down on her bottom lip. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “He was supposed to be with _me_ ,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

With a pained sigh, Harry let his arm fall, so his wand was no longer aimed at her. “That was never going to happen, you know. Even if he _wasn’t_ with me . . .” He tried to say it kindly, but a world of exasperation was right under the surface of his words.

Turning back, she faced him, a desperate kind of curiosity in her eyes. “Is he different?” she asked hesitantly. “When you’re alone together? When you and he . . . you know. . . .” She paused, looked down at the floor. “I always thought if he loved . . . someone, he would be different. Warm . . . maybe even . . . gentle.”

Harry studied her downcast face for a moment, his anger slipping away at her words into the familiar aching emptiness of missing Draco, wanting to hold him, needing his touch. “He is,” he said, his voice low, constricted. “He’s exactly like that.”

“I wanted that from him . . .” She sighed. “At least I was right about something.” She looked back up at Harry, then gave a short sarcastic laugh. “Ha! Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy,” she taunted. “Lovers! God, who would _ever_ have believed _that!_ Last thing I knew you wanted to rip each other into gory little bits. How in the _world_ did you manage it?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that someday we can all sit down and have a nice chat about how it happened,” he said, annoyance surfacing sharply again. “But right now I need to find him. Don’t you have _any_ idea where he is?”

“None,” said Pansy, telling the truth but inwardly pleased that she didn’t know. She might have to concede defeat to Potter in this; still, it wouldn’t do to actually _help_ him.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Harry, turning away. He walked across the landing and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to Draco’s room, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. “Where could he be?”

After a moment, Pansy came over and sat down next to him. “I suppose,” she said grudgingly, “if it couldn’t be me, I should be glad it’s you that he’s with – I mean you are _the_ bloody famous Harry Potter – at least I didn’t have to give him up to a nobody. I couldn’t have stood it if he’d really been with that sixth-year.”

Harry gave her a look of profound irritation and stood up. “I’m going to wait for him up in his room,” he said decisively. He went up about three steps, then paused and turned around. “If you really care about him, Parkinson,” he said, “you could try being his friend. And friends don’t blackmail friends.”

* * * * * 

When Harry got up to Draco’s room, he relit the fire in the hearth, and then found himself at a complete loss. It was snowing outside again, and Harry stood for a bit with his elbows propped on Draco’s windowsill, watching as the fat, heavy, swirling snowflakes quickly covered the grounds. But the snow only reminded him of that wonderful day he’d spent with Draco flying over the forests beyond Hogsmeade. That thought made him suddenly remember that he’d left his Firebolt here in Draco’s room. He turned around to look for it and found it leaning with Draco’s Nimbus Two Thousand and One in the corner by Draco’s bookshelf.

Wandering over there, he scanned the titles of the books on Draco’s shelves. There was, of course, the massive _Potions Through the Ages: A Historical Encyclopedia_ , that Draco had used the night they’d attempted to make the Hex Mirror Potion. Next to it was _Old English Lybcraeft: The Secrets of Magical Herblore_ , and _Poisons and Explosives: How to Avoid Deadly Mixtures in Potion-making_ , then _Cockayne’s Leechdoms, Wortcunning and Starcraft of Early England_ in three volumes. Harry had to admit that Draco had a very impressive collection of potions manuals and references on potions ingredients, including all seven years of their Potions class textbooks – but there was nothing there of much interest to him.

Finally, he cast himself down into the armchair by the fire and stared at the chessboard on the table. He studied the pieces again, reconfirming what he’d known this morning – that the move Draco had made was completely impossible. There was no way, he knew, that Draco would have made such a mistake, so it _had_ to have been deliberate, _had_ to be some kind of a hint. Harry also looked at the move Draco had almost made last night before the Yule Ball, and shook his head. What had Draco called it? Suicide? It was indeed.

So that gave Draco only one other possible move, a move that left Harry with a potentially long chase ahead to capture Draco’s King. Harry realized now with an unsettling sense of foreboding and deep disappointment, that they probably wouldn’t have time to finish the game before Draco left tomorrow morning.

Maybe hidden within all those possible future moves, Draco did have some brilliant and clever strategy that he couldn’t see yet, but it was pointless to stare at it. It was Draco’s move, and not being able to do anything only increased his frustration. He leaned back in the chair, feeling tense and dejected, and gazed morosely into the fire. Where could Draco have possibly disappeared to so completely?

* * * * * 

Draco was running again, taking the steps in the Slytherin tower two at a time like he had after the Yule Ball the night before. It was mid-afternoon and he hadn’t seen Harry all day. If it hadn’t been for his father’s damn interfering and that bloody spell on the ring, he thought angrily, they would have had all morning together. Instead he’d had to spend the entire morning waiting for Dumbledore to see him, and then had to explain everything, and after that had to wait for the spell on the ring to be carefully taken care of, and finally, he had to talk Dumbledore into giving him what he needed to carry out his plan for his father, and then wait for that. It had taken hours.

Dumbledore had been very understanding, very helpful and concerned – had in other words played exactly into Draco’s scheme. The headmaster had even gone so far as to order lunch for the two of them up to his office. Draco felt more than a little guilty over deceiving the old wizard, but he reminded himself yet again that he had no choice. And all the while, he’d been worried about Harry – about what Harry must be thinking as the hours dragged slowly by. Draco was almost sure that Harry had understood him this morning, but doubt and anxiety kept creeping in to torment him.

After he’d finally left Dumbledore’s office, he had gone directly to the Gryffindor common room looking for Harry. At least, he had thought, the friendship they’d declared at the Yule Ball had given him the right to do that. But the Fat Lady in the portrait over the entrance had flatly refused to let him even poke his head in to ask for Harry. Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley, she informed him indignantly, had left well over an hour ago and had not returned, and unless he knew the password . . .

“Then let me talk to Hermione Granger,” he’d insisted, trying not to lose patience and make some wild, embarrassing and vain attempt to jerk the portrait off the wall in frustration. “She’s Head Girl and I’m a prefect,” he added, grasping at anything that might convince the obstinate portrait. “I’ve got to ask her something – it’s important!”

He’d looked so desperate at that point that the Fat Lady gave in, opening up just enough to allow him to look into the common room.

To Draco’s profound relief, he’d found Granger there waiting for him. Harry, she told him acerbically, had gone to Draco’s own room to wait, having spent the entire morning searching for him, believing that Draco hadn’t really meant what he had said that morning. Draco assured her that Harry had been right and that he would go back to his room immediately to straighten things out between them. It was then that he’d started running again, racing headlong down the long shifting staircases, only to be brought up short by Weasley at the bottom of the main stairs outside the Great Hall.

He’d shaken the angry redhead off with a rough explanation: he’d been to see Dumbledore about going home; yes, he and Harry were fine; he hadn’t been trying to warn Harry about anything dangerous; it was all Pansy’s fault and could he just go and see Harry now . . . _please_. That please had practically stuck in his throat, but Weasley had let him go.

Draco had taken off again, running flat out down the corridor to the Slytherin tower alcove. As he sprinted up the stairs past Pansy’s door, he heard it open, but he was already four, then six, steps up, around the turning, and she didn’t call out. He wouldn’t have stopped anyway.

* * * * * 

Harry still sat in the chair in Draco’s room, his eyes closed, tired from staring into the fire. He pulled his glasses off for a moment, to rub the bridge of his nose. It was nearly two-thirty in the afternoon and no one had seen Draco since he’d left the Great Hall after breakfast. Harry was on the verge of becoming distraught, and alternative plans were beginning to form in his mind.

He was just about to convince himself that waiting here was not a good idea after all, and that he should let the headmaster know that Draco was missing, when he heard running footsteps and the door flew open behind him. For a second he was frozen, afraid to believe. He’d waited so long . . . 

“Draco?” he called, his voice breaking a little. Then he bolted up from the chair to see.

Draco was standing just inside the open door, his hand still on the latch, pale hair falling into his eyes. “Harry?” he said, a little breathless from running. They stared at each other for about a second, then Draco, letting the door swing shut behind him, stepped swiftly across the space between them and threw his arms around Harry’s neck. Harry’s arms came up around Draco’s back and they held each other tightly for several long minutes, just hanging on, until Draco, finally catching his breath, said, “You understood my hints? You knew I didn’t mean what I said at breakfast?”

“Yes,” said Harry pulling back and brushing the hair away from Draco’s eyes. “I got the hints.” _And I saw the truth in your eyes_ , he thought to himself.

“They _were_ good hints, weren’t they,” said Draco with a relieved smile, pride in his own cleverness clear in his tone of voice. “But I was worried all day,” he added seriously, “afraid that you might not have understood.”

Harry laughed, exasperated. “ _You_ were worried! Draco, I’ve been out my bloody _mind_ with worry. No one knew where you were!” All the frustration of the long morning’s search and the afternoon spent waiting washed through Harry. “I might have understood this morning that you didn’t really mean to break up with me,” he went on, voicing his pent-up questions, “but I still don’t know why. And when you disappeared like that . . . and we couldn’t find you, I was afraid all kinds of things had happened to you!” He paused and took a deep breath. “I want to know what’s going on.”

“I know,” said Draco, leaning in to kiss Harry. “I’ll tell you . . . in a minute.” He managed to steal a short kiss before Harry pulled away again.

“Now,” said Harry, but his tone had softened from the kiss. “I know it had something to do with Pansy – I saw her on the stairs, but why? What did she do? And where have you been all day? I’ve been looking all over for you.” His voice quivered slightly. “I thought we’d have the whole day together. I was afraid – that the owl this morning was from your father – that you were in trouble.”

Draco shook his head. “The owl _was_ from my father, but it’s okay – he was just angry because I hadn’t written to him like he’d asked me to, so I had to answer it before I came down to breakfast.” He paused for a second, meeting Harry’s questioning green eyes unwaveringly.

“As for Pansy, she came up here,” he explained, “just after you left, and threatened to tell my father about us. She’d written a letter to him and wanted a scene in exchange for her silence. So I gave it to her.” He smiled a quick mischievous half-smile. “Though I’m afraid I quite neglected to tell her about the hints.”

Then his expression turned solemn as he pulled the ring out of his pocket and held out his hand for Harry’s hand. “I’m sorry for taking this,” he said softly. “It’s still yours.”

“She was going to tell your father!” breathed Harry, startled and alarmed. “Oh God,” he said, remembering the conversation he’d had with Pansy in the stairwell. “She said she’d wanted to hurt me and I . . . I told her it didn’t work – that I knew all along you didn’t mean it. She said she thought it worked just fine . . . but do you think she’ll send the letter now anyway,” he asked anxiously, “because of what I said?”

He put his hand in Draco’s hand almost absently and let Draco slide the ring back on his finger.

“No,” said Draco with certainty. “For one thing, I don’t think she really meant to send it at all. She just wanted to cause trouble, and if she knew you were running around upset and looking for me, she got what she wanted. Besides,” he grinned smugly, “I took the letter from her and burned it. She’d have to write it all over again and knowing Pansy, that would be too much bother.”

He squeezed Harry’s hand. “But now,” he added, urgency surfacing in his voice, his grin fading quickly again into deadly seriousness, “promise me you won’t ever take this ring off again. Not for _any_ reason . . . no matter what happens.”

“Okay,” said Harry, looking down at the small ornate silver dragon that encircled his finger. “I promise. But, why?”

“It’s very important to me, that’s all,” said Draco earnestly. “To know you have it on, while I’m gone.”

“I’ll wear it every minute then,” said Harry with a reassuring smile.

Draco smiled back and drew Harry into his arms to kiss him again.

This time Harry didn’t pull away for some time, allowing the kiss and the comfort of Draco’s body pressed against his own to soothe the tension he still felt from the morning’s stress.

“To answer your second question,” Draco continued, slightly breathless after they parted, “I’ve been with Dumbledore all morning. I talked to him about me going home. I told him how worried you were.”

“Finally!” exclaimed Harry, very pleased with this news. “And . . . he told you to stay here, right?” he asked hopefully.

“No. But I asked him to make me this.” Draco stepped back, pulling gently out of Harry’s embrace and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small coin that resembled a silver sickle. “It’s a Portkey to that old hub we found on the way to Hogsmeade,” he said. “Dumbledore made it with a trigger word to activate it – if anything happens, all I have to do is hold on to it and say the word. I’ll keep it with me every minute, Harry, I promise.”

Draco took a deep breath, knowing that the next thing he was going to say was pivotal, the first step in actually bringing Harry into what he had planned for his father. He met Harry’s vivid green eyes with an expression he hoped would pass convincingly for honesty and said, “But, since I have it, I’ve decided not to stay home for the entire holiday, even if nothing happens. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get away on the day after Christmas, late in the afternoon, maybe as early as three o’clock.”

“Won’t that make your father even more suspicious?” asked Harry, surprised. “That you go home for two days and then vanish suddenly to come back here?”

“He expects me to be home for Christmas Day,” explained Draco, “but then, I hope, he’ll be leaving. After that, it won’t matter. If I have to, I’ll think of an excuse to tell him, about coming back early – that I have to study or something.” Draco put the Portkey back in his pocket. “Will you meet me there?” he asked, practically holding his breath. “At the Portkey hub?” Harry’s answer to this was critical.

“Yes, of course I will,” Harry assured him. “But Draco, why there? Why didn’t Dumbledore make a Portkey to bring you straight back to the castle?”

“Because we can’t trust my father,” Draco said gravely. “If this Portkey fell into the wrong hands somehow . . . and they forced me to tell . . .”

Harry nodded, understanding. “. . . they could get inside Hogwarts.”

“Right.”

Harry sighed. It wasn’t what he would have preferred, but it was much better than having Draco gone for the entire holiday. “Okay,” he said. “Unless I hear otherwise, I’ll be there to meet you,” he promised. “The day after Christmas, at three o’clock.” He smiled. “Then we’ll have the castle almost all to ourselves for days.”

Draco smiled too, and moved close to hold Harry again, but the smile disappeared as soon as they embraced and he knew Harry couldn’t see his face. His heart was aching – from hiding the truth, from knowing the truth. He wished he didn’t have to let Harry believe they would be together after Christmas. He wished it could be true. He wanted to promise Harry they would have those days after Christmas, and all the days after that, together for the rest of their lives, but in reality, it would all be over on the day after Christmas at three o’clock.

Their future ended precisely then.

And every minute that passed brought them closer to that end, every minute that passed made it harder for Draco to shut out the thoughts that tormented him. He laid his head on Harry’s shoulder, feeling tired and hurt. Harry now expected to spend the holidays with him, and Draco, knowing what would really happen instead, shivered.

“Draco?” asked Harry softly, feeling that shiver. “Are you okay?”

“I missed you,” said Draco in a low voice. “I’m sorry I was gone so long – I didn’t know it would take so long,” he added, suddenly sorry for a thousand other things as well. He lifted his head to meet Harry’s concerned gaze. “Now most of our last day has gone.”

“Never mind,” said Harry, kissing him lightly, one hand reaching up to touch his face. “We have all of tonight, and then in two days you’ll be back.”

Draco didn’t reply; he just kissed Harry back, ardently.

Harry’s arms went around Draco, holding him close, melting into this kiss. He felt secure and comforted again; all his questions answered. Suddenly, just knowing that Draco would be back so much sooner than expected, knowing that they would have time alone together over the holidays, made him feel so much better. If they could just get through the next two days of separation . . .

He felt Draco’s tongue gently teasing his lower lip and he opened his mouth, welcoming that soft invasion, deepening the kiss. Little sparks and shivers thrilled through him – and his arms tightened, pressing Draco closer. Oh God, he wanted this, wanted Draco so much. He remembered what he had been thinking the night before as he’d held Draco asleep in his arms. Draco would only be gone for two days, but he still might not be safe, and Harry couldn’t accept the thought of parting from him, even for that short time, without making love to him.

Harry pulled slowly out of the kiss and opened his eyes to look at Draco’s face. For a few seconds, Draco kept his eyes closed, then he opened them, velvet gray kindling with warmth and desire, and Harry sighed softly. “Let’s please finish the chess game,” he said, his words a breath across Draco’s cheek as he bent his head to kiss Draco again. “We only have tonight before you leave. And it’s your turn.”

Draco closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, pausing for a long moment before he answered. “No,” he said quietly. He looked up then, meeting Harry’s eyes squarely. “I want to save my next move . . . until I come back.”

Harry was caught completely off guard by this. “What?” he said, shocked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We’ll finish the game when I come back,” Draco reiterated, still quietly, a wash of pain in his eyes.

All the times that Draco had avoided this issue, evading Harry’s questions or giving reasons that didn’t really explain anything, came suddenly rushing back; all the frustration of wanting Draco and not knowing why the other boy was stalling welled up again inside Harry, and he pulled out of Draco’s loosened embrace, hurt. He had known there was a possibility they couldn’t finish the game tonight, but now Draco was saying he wouldn’t even take his next turn! A memory surfaced unbidden – Ron’s voice saying: _“Maybe he’s stalling because he doesn’t want to – and he’s just having you on with this relationship – while he’s really plotting something else – ”_

Harry turned, took a step away, and for a second he was close to picking up his bookbag and walking out. But Draco touched his arm and he knew that leaving was really the last thing he wanted to do.

“Harry, I just need to wait.”

“When you started this, Draco,” said Harry in a low voice, “you said you would be honest with me.” He glanced back at Draco, not willing to be put off any longer for an explanation. “You keep saying you want to be with me, but then you keep finding reasons to avoid it. Now you say _you_ need to wait. Was all that talk of wanting to wait so _I_ wasn’t rushed just a lie – ”

Draco hesitated, but seemed to sense that Harry would not accept his evasions any longer. “Not exactly . . .” he murmured.

“Then what, exactly?” Harry asked, his anger rising. “That it was _all_ a lie? That you had no intention of making love with me?”

“No! I can barely think of anything else,” said Draco, his voice tight, constricted with emotion. He turned away and walked to the window. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he said in a hushed voice. “You have no idea.”

Harry came to stand several steps behind him, his anger vanishing as quickly as it had come at Draco’s words. The air seemed to tremble from the depth of emotion running between them, and Harry felt it, like a fluttering quiver against his heart. “I think I have a very _good_ idea,” he said softly. “So why?” he asked again, his voice quiet, but desperate. “All this time, there’s been something you haven’t told me. Just tell me. Please.”

“What if something _does_ happen when I go home?” asked Draco, staring out the window. Swirling snowflakes brushed against the window pane and melted without a sound. He turned his head to look at Harry over his shoulder. “Even with that Portkey, something could go wrong,” he said, his voice taut. “What if I don’t come back, _can’t_ come back?”

“Draco, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” said Harry, his fear and frustration instantly flaring up again. “That’s exactly why I don’t want you to go!”

“And I thought we had settled that!” replied Draco, his gray eyes flashing, a reflection of the same frustration Harry felt. “I told you. I _have_ to go!”

“But now it sounds like you’re fairly certain something _will_ happen!” accused Harry. His voice shook.

“You know what my father is,” said Draco in an aggrieved tone, turning away to look out the window again. “I can’t be sure of _anything_ ,” he added bitterly.

Harry sighed inwardly, torn between not wanting to hurt Draco or argue with him and needing to know why Draco was determined to postpone the intimacy they both wanted so badly. The pain in Draco’s words touched him deeply, but he couldn’t stop his questions. He had to understand this.

He walked to the window to stand next to Draco and in a gentler voice asked, “But what does that have to do with what you told me before – that you wanted _me_ to be sure?” He paused and took a deep breath. “I think there’s still something you’re not telling me, and that scares me,” he said, pressing Draco for an answer. “What are you trying to protect me from? And don’t bother denying that – I felt it last night.”

There was a long silence as Draco struggled with an answer.

Harry waited him out.

“I didn’t want to be like that girl you were with,” said Draco finally, still staring out the window. “I didn’t want to hurt you like she did. You said you regretted being with her. Then you said you wanted it to mean forever with me.” He took a ragged breath and his head dropped a little, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to me so that I couldn’t come back . . . and what you remembered about us was that you regretted it.”

He turned his face to Harry, brushing his hair back with one slender hand, his troubled eyes as gray and cloudy as a stormy sky. “If we make love, I wanted to be sure it really could mean forever.”

Harry remembered Draco’s soft words from that night they had talked about Cho – _“If that happens between us, Harry, I promise it will mean forever for me,”_ and was stunned and touched to the heart.

“I just wanted to be sure I came back before . . .” Draco’s words trailed off and he looked away.

With a feeling of relief and then affectionate exasperation for the fact that only Draco could possibly find a way to needlessly complicate something this much, Harry moved closer to Draco. “But I understand why she did it now,” he said earnestly. “I don’t regret it now.”

His heart turned over at the anxious tension evident in the straight stiff line of Draco’s back. “God, Draco, how could you imagine I would regret making love with you?” he asked softly. “I know how uncertain things are.” He laid his hand lightly between Draco’s shoulder blades, rubbed gently at that tension with his thumb, and felt Draco stir at his touch. “Don’t you know that if anything happened to you now, what I would regret for the rest of my life would be the future we never got to have, all the things we never got to do together?”

Draco dropped his head down on his arms on the windowsill, heartsick. He’d known this deep down, but had selfishly ignored it, even while believing he was trying to prevent it. He’d wanted to keep Harry from being too involved, from getting hurt, and had failed. He had wanted everything that Harry would give him, and because of that he had allowed Harry to get far closer than he should have. Now it was much too late to stop it. Nothing was going to save Harry from being hurt now.

“Draco, love,” said Harry, his voice low, full of warmth. “I understand now why you wanted to wait, and if you still do, that’s okay.” He lifted his hand and gently stroked the soft, blond hair down the back of Draco’s neck. Then he said the words that finally shattered Draco’s resolve. “But what if this _is_ all the time we have? What if the only memories I will ever get to keep of us are the ones from this week? Please don’t make this something else we never got to share with each other.”

Draco lifted his head and turned to face Harry, and in Draco’s eyes Harry saw pain and desire and a desperate hope so strong that Harry needed no words to tell him what Draco was going to ask, or what answer he needed to hear.

“You wouldn’t regret it, then . . . if we did?”

“Never,” whispered Harry. “I’ve been telling you that for days.”

They stared at each other for a long suspended moment. Draco dropped his eyes, the color in his cheeks high.

Harry took a deep breath, knowing that everything depended on his next question . . . and on Draco’s answer. He drew Draco to him, his hands resting lightly on Draco’s shoulders. “What do you want to do?” he asked.

“Make up for lost time,” replied Draco softly, looking up, his heart in his eyes. He reached for Harry and Harry was right there, in his arms, his, _all_ his, with no more reservations.

Harry’s arms went around Draco’s neck and they stood holding each other for a long time, faces pressed ear to cheek, just breathing, just knowing. Then Harry kissed and nuzzled Draco’s ear and asked in a whisper, “Now what?”

Draco smiled against the side of Harry’s face. “Why are you asking me?” he whispered back. “You’re the one with experience here.”

“With a _girl_ , Draco,” said Harry with a bit of a laugh. “Which _you_ are not.” He pulled back just enough to see Draco’s face, and his heart skipped a beat at Draco’s soft, amused smile, at the anticipation shining in the light gray eyes.

“Most definitely _not_ ,” agreed Draco with a low sultry laugh, his arms tightening around Harry’s waist, pressing their bodies closer together, his head tilting as he leaned forward to kiss Harry.

Draco kissed Harry passionately, and Harry lost himself in it, feeling the difference immediately – there was nothing withheld from him in this kiss – Draco was offering him everything, and he willingly gave himself in return. His hands slipped down from Draco’s shoulders to lie pressed between them, his palms against Draco’s chest, then he slowly unfastened the buttons on Draco’s shirt, one by one. Harry felt Draco sigh under his mouth, felt him tremble when his hands slipped inside Draco’s shirt, skimming warm over skin.

“C’mon,” whispered Harry, pulling away gently, almost unwilling to break apart. He took Draco’s hand and led him to bed.

* * * * * 

Dumbledore gazed over the tops of his half-moon glasses, his usually twinkling blue eyes quite solemn as he served tea to Professors Snape and McGonagall in his office. “I’ve asked you both here,” he said, “because I fear that one of our students, and possibly two, may be in grave danger.”

Neither of the teachers said anything, but Snape’s black eyes narrowed and McGonagall’s mouth set in a thin, tense line.

“I am speaking of Draco Malfoy,” continued Dumbledore. “I spent several hours with him earlier today working on a ring that Lucius Malfoy sent him a few days ago. Draco had put a very strong and, I must say, expertly-done advanced version of a Hex-Off Potion on the ring,” said the headmaster, nodding at Snape. “He said he was both practicing for his Potions class and trying to protect himself for his trip home over the holidays.

It was only after he’d finished soaking the ring for the required time in the potion, he told me, that he suspected his father might have cast a prior spell on the ring. He asked me to test it and I found an extremely powerful will-sapping spell on it.” Dumbledore stroked his beard and fixed the two professors with a somber gaze. “I don’t need to tell you,” he said quietly, “that it was Dark Magic of the worst kind. It would have rendered the wearer of the ring totally defenseless against the Imperius Curse.”

Snape drew in a breath like a hiss.

McGonagall’s hand flew up to press over her heart. “But you removed it, surely?” she asked, clearly alarmed.

“No,” said Dumbledore seriously. “I feared that removing it would be too dangerous, and that it would leave Draco, even with his own spell on the ring, too unprotected. So I reversed it instead. That way, in a cursory examination, the spell will appear to be intact, but the effect will be the opposite than what was intended.” He paused a moment, as both teachers nodded their approval, then went on. “But that is only the beginning of the problem,” he said, his voice severe. “I’m sure you both are aware that with recent . . . developments, any danger to Draco could very well mean that Harry Potter is also in danger.”

Snape’s eyebrows drew down in a scowl. “I want it understood that I do not approve of this relationship between them at all,” he said coldly. “I told them _both_ ,” he added emphatically, “that they were putting themselves at considerable risk. Neither of them listened.” His upper lip curled slightly in disgust. “In fact, when I talked to Potter, he was not only completely oblivious to his own danger, but to the danger he was putting Draco in as well.”

“I warned Harry, too,” said McGonagall, setting her teacup down, coming to Harry’s defense. “But he was very worried. He begged me to stop Malfoy from going home.”

“Which we cannot do if he is determined to go,” stated Dumbledore firmly, cutting off any retort from Professor Snape. “But you should know that Draco did request my help. I have given him a Portkey that will transport him to a site between here and Hogsmeade if an emergency should arise. However,” he continued, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m afraid that may be insufficient – which is why I asked you here.”

Dumbledore faced the professors with deep concern in his light blue eyes. “Because of the excessive virulence of the spell Lucius Malfoy put on that ring,” he said, “I suspect he has something planned. Draco seems to believe it is very important that nothing be altered in his routine that might alert his father, yet I definitely sensed that he is quite distressed about going home over the holidays. So although I went along with his requests this morning without questioning him too closely, I had the distinct impression that he may be in more trouble than he was telling me.”

“Is there any possibility that Draco is . . . deliberately leading Harry on . . . for some purpose of his father’s?” asked McGonagall, her voice shaking slightly.

“Considering the spell on that ring,” protested Snape acidly, “Draco’s willing agreement with whatever his father is planning seems irrelevant.”

Dumbledore held up his hand, his eyes solemn. “I believe that Draco’s attachment to Harry is quite genuine, but for safety’s sake we cannot disregard any possibility.” He regarded both teachers soberly. “With that in mind, this is what I have decided to do . . .”

* * * * * 

Waking up the next morning, Harry was immediately aware that he was alone. Draco’s warm presence was gone from the bed; the bed drapes on Draco’s side were drawn back and left open. The room was far too quiet, with only the low, crackling whisper of the fire falling lonely and forlorn into the emptiness of the room. Harry sat up abruptly with a feeling of panic surging through him – his first alarming thought was that Draco had slipped out and left without waking him.

He slid over onto Draco’s side of the bed to get his glasses from the night table and then was able to see that Draco’s travel bag was still on the chair by the door. Relaxing slightly, and looking around the room more carefully, he noticed that the window was ajar and that Draco’s broom was gone from its place by the bookcase. He laughed a little to himself at that, wondering why in the world Draco would have gone out flying so early this morning, but felt reassured now, knowing that Draco would be back. Hopefully soon, he thought, wanting Draco back in his arms, and back in bed with him.

With that thought, he lay back down and pulled the blankets up, closing his eyes and smiling as a flood of memories from yesterday afternoon and last night flashed through his mind. Draco had embraced their first sexual experience with a mixture of enthusiasm, sensitivity and shy awkwardness that Harry had found irresistible and utterly charming. He grinned at the memory, not caring that he blushed. Nothing in his own limited experience had prepared him for the consuming waves of pleasure he had found in the other boy's intimate touches.

_And oh, God_ , he thought, blushing yet again, _Draco was so beautiful_. The deep warmth in those lovely gray eyes, the graceful, elegantly lean lines of Draco’s body, the perfect way they had fit together, all of it had left him speechless, moved beyond words. Harry could see Draco so clearly in memory, eyes closed in ecstasy, his neck arched back, responding to Harry’s touch, trembling with release –

A sudden rustling noise at the window pulled him from his thoughts, and Harry, with a rush of anticipation, sat up again.

The window swung open, and a second later Draco flew in, managing his broom with careful precision in the tight space. As he landed, he immediately looked over at Harry and seeing him awake, grinned, one eyebrow arched provocatively. “I thought you were going to sleep all day,” he said, teasing.

“And I thought you’d already left,” said Harry, scolding gently, “until I saw your broom was gone.” Then curiosity got the better of him, and relenting, he grinned back. “So, what were you doing out there, anyway?”

“I’ve been out to look at the snow,” replied Draco with an impish smile. He put his broom back in the corner and came to sit on the edge of the bed by Harry. His clothes still held a breath of the frosty outside air and his face was flushed from the cold, but his hands and mouth were warm as he took Harry’s hands and leaned in to kiss him. “You should definitely go out later and look for yourself,” he said, still teasing, but now with a hint of excitement in his tone. “The view from here is spectacular.”

Harry smiled, lacing his fingers with Draco’s. “Last night was spectacular,” he said softly, his eyes meeting Draco’s. His heart turned over to see Draco’s gray eyes kindle into warm melted silver at his words.

“It was,” agreed Draco, his voice hushed with affection. He squeezed Harry’s far hand and let it go, reaching up to pull off Harry’s glasses and return them to the night table. “Lie down,” he whispered against Harry’s mouth as he kissed Harry again.

Harry lay back and closed his eyes, a quiet thrill shivering through him as Draco bent to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat. He felt Draco’s hand rest lightly on his chest for a second, and then Draco’s fingers curled under the edge of the blankets to pull them down, little by little, out of the way of his kisses.

Draco took his time, placing small, reverent, lingering kisses, gradually moving down, each one a declaration of feelings too vivid to be spoken, each one a message that melted into Harry’s skin, each one a note of tender fire, until there were ardent chords and warm choruses of unspoken endearments singing down the length of Harry’s body.

Harry’s grasp tightened on Draco’s hand that he still held, his heart pounding as the blankets were pushed gently aside and Draco’s kisses went lower still. Draco was making love to him. It was very slow, Draco teasing him, holding him on the edge of forever with soft touches and kisses until Harry lost himself entirely to the warm silk of Draco’s mouth . . .

Afterwards, Draco pulled the blankets back up and sat next to Harry, leaning over to embrace him. Harry’s trembling arms went around Draco’s neck and he held on tightly; Draco’s solid presence his only anchor as the world that had dissolved in an arcing crescendo of heat-rush gradually re-formed, becoming steady and solid around him again. Strength returned to his melted bones, his pounding heart and racing breath slowed.

“I have to go,” whispered Draco finally. They’d been holding each other for a long, seemingly timeless moment; a moment now over far too quickly. “Don’t,” said Draco quietly, when Harry moved to get up. “Don’t come down with me. I want to be able to think of you here, in my bed, when I’m on the train.”

Harry looked into Draco’s eyes; they were misty, sad, gray as falling rain. “I want to see you off,” he protested weakly. “I don’t want to say goodbye here . . . not yet.”

Draco bit his lower lip and for a second looked away. Harry’s fingers tightened on his, squeezing with reassurance and a question, and he looked back up. “I can’t,” he said very softly. “I can’t say goodbye to you there, not in front of all those people on the platform.”

Harry understood, but it was hard, so hard, to let Draco go. He traced a faint shimmering line down the side of Draco’s face with gentle fingers, wanting to remember this look in Draco’s eyes, to save in memory the sadness, the desire and love he saw in them now. “Will you take a note to Ron for me, then?” he asked at last, giving in. “Otherwise, he won’t understand if I don’t come to see him and Hermione off for the holidays.”

Draco nodded and brought Harry a piece of parchment, and a quill and ink from his desk.

Harry sat up, his knees drawn up under the blankets to give himself support for writing, while Draco sat silently at his feet, his head down, his arms crossed over his chest.

Harry wrote:

  


> _Ron,_
> 
> _I’m sending this note with Draco instead of coming to the station myself. I’m_  
>  _perfectly fine – it’s just that saying goodbye to him is hard and the station is_  
>  _very public. Neither of us wants to cause a scene. But I wanted to wish you and_  
>  _Hermione a very Happy Christmas and I hope everything goes as you planned_  
>  _with the ring and all. I’m sure Hermione will love it since, of course, she loves you._
> 
> _You should know too, that what happened at breakfast yesterday was not Draco’s_  
>  _fault – he was being blackmailed by Pansy Parkinson. But he made up for it last_  
>  _night a thousand times over and made all my wishes come true. I’ve never been_  
>  _so happy._
> 
> _Give my love and Christmas wishes to your family,_
> 
> _Harry_

  


He folded the note up and handed it to Draco, his face flushed slightly from what he’d said at the end. But it was true. He’d never felt as happy as he did now, or so filled with sadness and longing.

Draco stood up and turned to him, and their eyes met, green and gray, the balance of the world captured in that one lingering, momentary, heart-linked gaze. Harry’s arms went around Draco’s waist, drawing him close one more time, resting his head against Draco’s chest. He could hear the beating of Draco’s heart under his ear. Draco’s arms encircled Harry’s shoulders, his head bent down, his face buried in Harry’s soft, tousled hair. They held each other again for a time that was far too short, then Draco pulled reluctantly away.

Their hands clasped and held for a moment longer, and Harry, looking up, said with a catch in his voice, “Day after tomorrow. Three o’clock.”

Draco nodded, and squeezed Harry’s hand. “See you then,” he said softly, slipping finally out of Harry’s grasp.

With a growing ache in his throat, Harry watched Draco walk across the room, gather his travel bag from the chair and go to the door. “Happy Christmas,” said Harry, his voice breaking.

Draco stood in the open door for a second, turning to glance back one last time at Harry; the smile he tried to give Harry came out small and tight and heart-torn. “Happy Christmas,” he said in a constricted, hushed voice, and then he was gone.

_Oh, just please come back to me, love_ , Harry thought as the door closed. He hugged the tops of his knees and dropped his head down on his arms. _Please be safe_.

* * * * * 

Draco found Ron and Hermione on the platform for the train. Walking away from Harry had left him aching inside, and he didn’t want to talk to Harry’s friends at all, but he had a message to deliver. He handed Harry’s note to Ron without a word.

Ron took it from him with a scowl. “Where is Harry?” he demanded.

“In my room,” said Draco shortly. “Still in bed.”

“I think it’s pretty strange that he didn’t come to see us off,” complained Ron. “But at least while _you’re_ gone, I don’t have to worry about him.”

That was almost more than Draco could stand. Knowing what he was about to do, knowing the hurt he would cause . . . while Harry’s friends trusted that Harry would be safe . . . He watched Weasley read Harry’s note in stony silence.

Ron read the note twice, then looked up at Draco, red-faced. “I guess I owe you an apology after all, Malfoy,” he said tautly.

That _was_ more than Draco could stand. “Just shut it, Weasley,” he said, turning abruptly away, his voice low and harsh, anger camouflaging the pain he felt. Without a backward glance and with anguish in his heart, he walked away and boarded the train.

* * * * * 

Later in the morning, after he’d showered and dressed, Harry sat in Draco’s window staring absently outside at the snow-covered grounds, his thoughts totally preoccupied. Draco was gone. The train was gone, and so were Hermione and Ron. Christmas was tomorrow and he was alone. The Gryffindor dorm would be deserted; he’d be alone there too, so he felt in no hurry to leave Draco’s room. Here, he had memories to keep him company. He touched the ring on his finger and thought about Draco, and thought about how changed he felt since yesterday.

Making love with Draco had not been at all like the rushed, slightly guilty, and being-so-careful experience he’d had with Cho. No, thought Harry, it had been nothing like that. He and Draco been a bit awkward with each other at first, but their heartfelt bonding, their caring and desire, had quickly swept any self-consciousness away.

Sitting in the window now, he knew with absolute certainty that he was deeply in love, and was loved deeply in return. There was a peaceful new stillness inside him now, and a strong sense of completion, as if every unrequited yearning within him had been profoundly answered and assuaged.

Yet at the same time, he felt that he could never get enough of being with Draco, of holding and touching him, of the thrill of Draco’s touch on his own body, like both fire and comfort at once. Each soft, smooth plane and curve of Draco’s body under his hands had been exciting to explore; each embrace, each kiss had been both exhilarating and safe haven. With Draco, he’d discovered the intense pleasure of giving pleasure, and the abandoned freedom of receiving pleasure by surrendering to someone else in complete trust. He would, he felt now, trust Draco with his life.

Their first time, Harry remembered now with a bit of a silly grin to himself, had been over so quickly, it should hardly be counted at all. They’d been far too keyed up with each other, far too sensitive from waiting, and much too aroused from the newness of it all. They had barely lasted five minutes with each other before Draco had to _Accio_ a towel from the bathroom to mop up the mess between them.

But that hadn’t embarrassed them much. In fact, having gotten that out of the way, they were able to relax, take their time, exploring and gently teasing, affection evident in every smile, every touch, every lingering kiss. At first, Harry didn’t do any magic – his experience with it the night before, even when they’d only been kissing, had been too overwhelming and his control too limited, and what he was feeling with Draco was incredible enough; loving him was magic in and of itself.

Still, even though he hadn’t cast any spells, he was deeply aware that their magical auras were joining, that there was that wonderful low humming, musical vibration surrounding them, giving a deep sense of security and weaving them together in a way that made their bonding more than physical. Harry could sense their auras dissolving, flowing into each other, creating a powerful, fluid binding that connected him with Draco in a myriad of subtle ways.

Sometimes Harry felt he scarcely knew himself from Draco; he felt their heartbeats like rhythm and counterpoint, song and echo. He felt Draco moan softly as if with his own voice, felt the heat of his own hands touching Draco as if against his own skin. It was as if all the pieces of himself found a perfect match in Draco, fitting together like the answer to an unsolved riddle or the key in a secret lock.

As the afternoon waned and twilight dimmed the room, each caress became beautiful and magical as the shimmering sparks from their hands became visible. Then Harry did enough magic to make them visible to Draco too, so that he could share in the lovely vision they created. And as passion took them over, sparks ignited wherever their bodies touched, golden and crystal white, flaring all together in the moment of their climax. There was also in that blinding moment, a surge within their auras that Harry felt, yet scarcely noticed, an irrevocable fusing of energy from heart to heart.

Later, as evening fell, filling the room with a peaceful enveloping darkness, and the dying fire cast a rich rose-amber glow across the floor and faint flickering shadows over the bed, Harry lay in Draco’s arms drawing slow random designs of golden glitter over Draco’s pale skin. He propped himself up on one elbow to look down at the other boy’s face. Draco’s eyes were closed, a bemused and happy smile softly turning up the corners of his mouth, and Harry couldn’t stop looking at him.

After a moment, Draco opened his eyes, the velvety gray suffused with affection and contentment and sated desire, and Harry, enchanted, bent forward to kiss him. It was a kiss almost exactly like that very first kiss that Draco had given him, so many days and so many, many changes ago; an exquisitely gentle, achingly slow, but only for a moment, feather-soft kiss, but this time it held the words _I love you_ so clearly they might have been spoken aloud.

Draco sighed and pulled Harry down into his arms again, and Harry lay down, his head resting on Draco’s shoulder. For a long time they held each other, and not another word needed to be said.

But then, someone’s stomach rumbled softly and they laughed. “You know, I think we’ve completely missed dinner,” said Draco lazily, smoothing a stray lock of unruly black hair down behind Harry’s ear.

Harry grinned. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I brought sandwiches up from lunch – I didn’t know you’d eaten with Dumbledore.”

Draco turned over on his side to face Harry. “You brought me sandwiches?”

“I did.”

“Brilliant,” said Draco, rewarding Harry with a smile and a kiss.

Eventually, they’d gotten up, dug their boxers out of the pile of hastily discarded clothes next to the bed, and unpacked Harry’s bookbag. Draco relit the fire and they sat on the floor in front of the hearth unfolding napkins and laying out the sandwiches picnic style. They ate in the crackling warmth and light of the fire, wolfing down two sandwiches each, the chess game on the table behind them forgotten.

“Ron was all set to apologize to you this morning,” said Harry, finishing the last bite of a roast beef sandwich, “until that performance you gave at breakfast.”

“Oh, was he now?” laughed Draco.

“Yes, until you nearly gave him heart failure again. He was angry at me, because I stopped him from killing you.”

Draco was silent for a moment. “He has nothing to apologize to me for,” he said, suddenly turning serious. “I deserved every bit of his bad opinion.”

“But now you don’t,” protested Harry softly.

“Maybe,” said Draco, with a slight shrug, evidently unconvinced. “And maybe I still have a lot to make up for.”

“Not to me,” Harry assured him, a tone of finality in his voice. Harry ran his hand lightly up Draco’s bare back and ruffled the back of his hair.

Draco made a wry face. “I need a shower,” he said.

Harry felt heat rush to the tips of his ears. “Could I . . . ?” he asked, then faltered. “I mean, would you mind,” he started again, as Draco turned to face him, “if I got in . . . with you?”

Draco smiled in answer, that lovely, genuine full smile that always turned Harry’s bones to jelly.

Remembering all of this as he sat in Draco’s window, Harry blushed again now at the memory. Showering with Draco had been even nicer than he’d imagined. Draco wet, and steamy warm, and soft and slippery with soap and shampoo was . . . well, indescribable. Harry grinned to himself at the thought.

After the shower, and after Draco had packed his bag for the trip home, they’d gone back to bed, lying in each other’s arms, skin on clean skin like satin to the touch. Draco had asked Harry to work the sleep spell on him for this last night, and Harry had done it willingly, knowing that even though Draco hadn’t said so directly, he was anxious about going home and upset by the impending separation.

Harry was upset about the separation too. He was still very concerned about Draco going home, although less so now that Draco had the Portkey to bring him back. But, he thought to himself, he had a lot of memories to get him through the next two days, a lot of memories that would hopefully keep him from worrying too much while Draco was gone. Only two days and they’d be back together, and Draco would be safe.

Harry gazed out the window, wondering where Draco was now, wondering what he was doing. And thinking of him now, missing him intensely, he could almost feel Draco with him, could almost imagine he could feel the touch of those slender, gentle hands, the echo of that second heartbeat so close to his own.

He stared out the window at the snow, and finally something he’d been seeing all this time, but ignoring, began to make a conscious impression on him. The snow on the Quidditch pitch was strangely marked up. Harry squinted into the bright light reflecting from the snowy field and his heart suddenly jumped into his throat. Something was written out there! What had Draco said? _“You should definitely go out later and look for yourself – the view from here is spectacular.”_

Harry grinned widely, jumped down from the window ledge and hurriedly found shoes, cloak, muffler, and gloves, putting them on as quickly as he could, then grabbed his Firebolt. He felt a shivery rush of anticipation as he opened the window and flew out into the brisk, cold wind. Hovering over the Quidditch pitch, he caught his breath in surprise and then his laugh echoed over the snow-laden stands. Drawn in the snow and covering the entire field was the outline of an enormous heart. And inside it, in huge letters, was written:

**P-K LOVES D-W**

He circled the pitch once, then hovered again, high over the center, smiling, his cheeks flushed red from the cold air and from the joyful constriction in his heart.

It was while he was hovering there, that the owl found him. It was a small, pale cinnamon-colored barn owl, one of the types commonly used by public post offices like the one in Hogsmeade. It fluttered around him, until he held out his arm for it to land on. Then it stuck out a leg, presenting Harry with a sealed scroll that had no address written on the front, and flew away as soon as Harry had removed it.

Curious, Harry sped back to Draco’s room – it couldn’t be from Draco, and he didn’t have any idea who else it might be from. Once back inside, he closed the window, dropped his wraps on the floor and leaned his Firebolt against the wall. He sat in the chair by the fire, broke the seal and unrolled the letter.

Immediately, with a jolt of disbelief, he recognized the handwriting. Cho’s unique slanting script filled the page.

  


_Dear Harry_ , she wrote:

> _I can’t tell you how sorry I am for how badly things ended between us, and_  
>  _for not telling you the truth – I know how much I hurt you. I wanted to explain_  
>  _everything on our last morning, but you didn’t give me a chance. I hope you will_  
>  _believe that if I’d known that my parents had arranged for me to be married, I_  
>  _would never have gotten involved with you. But I’m not sorry for what I did, or_  
>  _what we did. Please try to understand that I couldn’t bear the thought of giving_  
>  _myself for the first time to a man I didn’t love, to someone I didn’t know. I_  
>  _wanted it to be with you. And I guess I also hoped there might be a virginity_  
>  _clause in the marriage agreement and it would have to be broken. My parents_  
>  _were very angry when I told them what I’d done and wouldn’t allow me to write_  
>  _to you. But they can’t stop me from writing now, and I have something important_  
>  _to tell you that can’t wait any longer. I’m hoping that by now you’ve had time to_  
>  _forgive me enough to let me back into your life._

  


Harry frowned and read on – but in another moment, he stopped breathing, his pulse pounding. He read it again, then leaned back in the chair, his eyes closed, totally shocked. It was a very long moment before he could read it again. _Oh, dear God._ How was he ever going to break this to Draco?

* * * * * 

Draco sat in the train compartment staring unseeing out the window, the enormity of what he was rushing towards filling him with a numb horror. He was alone in the compartment, something he had easily contrived by finding a box with first years and simply ordering them to get the hell out. The snowy landscape streamed by outside, blurring into dizzying flashes of bright reflected light and intermittent deep blue shadows to his unfocused gaze. He closed his eyes then, feeling sick.

Everything with Dumbledore had gone perfectly. The old wizard had believed his story completely. He should be glad, he thought, so why did he feel let down? Had he really secretly wished that Dumbledore would be suspicious and stop him? Was he so much of a coward as that, after all? _Too late now . . ._ whispered the rhythm of the wheels of the train on the tracks. _Too late . . . too late . . . too late . . ._

He pushed that out of his mind and thought instead about Harry. Waking up this morning with Harry sleeping in his arms after the wondrous afternoon and evening they’d had together had felt like nothing short of a miracle. He’d lain still for a very long time, just watching Harry sleep, while waves of tenderness and an ocean of regrets washed over him.

Harry had been so right about the memories. What they had shared with each other last night would be something he would treasure with every waking thought for the next two days, and he fervently wished that after everything was over, Harry would be able to treasure it too. Harry had said he would never regret it, no matter what happened, and Draco hoped that was the truth.

He wondered what Harry was doing now – had he left Draco’s room, or was he still there, curled up in the chair by the fire, maybe? Draco could picture that so easily; Harry just seemed so much a part of his room now, as if he belonged there. They belonged together, he and Harry. Draco knew this in every ounce of his being, down to the very marrow of his bones, and traveling away from him now like this, knowing the ending he would surely cause to come between them, was tearing him apart.

He tried to concentrate on remembering how it had felt to be with Harry last night, and the rush of emotion was nearly overwhelming. He laid his hand over the pendant that hung secret and cherished inside his shirt, against his skin, and felt his own heart beating under his hand. Harry’s heartbeat, he could imagine too, just as he’d felt it last night, racing with his own –

The door to the compartment slid open suddenly behind him, startling him from his thoughts and he tensed instinctively, but didn’t move.

“Draco?” said Pansy’s voice, confirming Draco’s suspicions of who had come in.

“I don’t feel like company,” said Draco coldly, not bothering to turn to look at her. “Certainly not yours.”

“Oh, come on, Draco,” she pouted. “Don’t be like that. You got back together with Potter, didn’t you? I know he stayed with you all night.” She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, her arms crossed over her chest. “You can’t hold a little harmless revenge against me. If I’d really wanted to make trouble, I would have sent the owl to your father and not told you. I wouldn’t have given you a chance to stop me.”

“What you did doesn’t matter,” he said flatly, still staring out the window. “I just need to be alone.”

“Crabbe and Goyle are in the other car with me,” she said, pleading, trying a different tack, exasperation in her voice. “They miss you. I miss you, too. Come sit with us. We practically bought out the treat cart. I saved the Chocolate Frogs for you.”

Draco turned to look at her then, his expression closed, tight. “No, thanks.”

She stared at him, unwilling to give up. “So, it’s going to be show and tell time with Daddy now, is it?” she teased. “I bet you don’t go through with it. I mean,” she said with a little snort of a laugh, “I can’t imagine that you being with Harry Potter will sit too well with him.”

“You’re wrong,” said Draco quietly, his voice hard, his eyes narrowed with barely concealed scorn. “I have nothing to hide. I’ve only done what he asked me to do.”

Pansy moved to sit next to him, but the look in his eyes stopped her and she sat across from him instead, regarding him intently for a long moment. “Your father asked you to get involved with Potter?” she asked, incredulous. Then she thought this through and came to the inevitable conclusion. “So it _was_ a plot all this time, like Blaise said. It wasn’t real. You don’t love him.”

Draco turned away from her to face out the window again, but not before she’d seen the flash of pain cross his face. “God, Draco, you _do_ love him.” She sucked in a sharp breath, taken aback. “You could do that? Love him and betray him like that? That’s really sick! Even for a Slytherin.”

“Get out,” hissed Draco. “Just get the bloody hell out!” It was only after the compartment door had opened and slammed shut behind him that Draco allowed himself to slump down. _I never meant for this to hurt him._ He leaned his face against the cold window, his eyes closed against the blurring dazzle of snow outside, against the sudden prickling threat of tears.

_I never thought he’d love me too._

His throat closed up with ache and for a long moment it was all he could do to breathe steadily. But after a few minutes, his determination relentlessly reasserted itself. There was something he had to do, and he was absolutely _not_ going to fail.

Draco reached into an inner pocket of his cloak, took out the Portkey Dumbledore had given him and pulled out his wand. He laid the Portkey on the seat next to him, and cast the duplicating spell, the same spell he’d used to make Harry’s dress robes for the Yule Ball. With a tiny blue-violet flash, a second identical silver coin now lay next to the first. Draco picked them up and held them for a moment, side by side in his hand, then pocketed them with grim satisfaction. At least that part of his plan was ready for when he had to talk to his father.

But whatever it was that Pansy had seen in his face, he was going to have to do a better job of hiding it. His father must never see it.


	15. Part III — Endgame — Chapter 15

  


_When I was 9 I learned survival, taught myself not to care_  
_I was my single good companion, taking my comfort there_  
_Up in my room I planned my conquests_  
_On my own, never asked for a helping hand_  
_No one would understand_  
_I never asked the pair who fought below_  
_Just in case they said no_

_Pity the child who knew his parents_  
_Saw their faults, saw their love die before his eyes_  
_Pity the child that wise_  
_He never asked did I cause your distress?_  
_Just in case they said yes_

_Pity the child who has ambition_  
_Knows what he wants to do_  
_Knows that he’ll never fit the system others expect him to_

_Pity the child but not forever_  
_Not if he stays that way_  
_He can get all he ever wanted_  
_If he’s prepared to pay_

Lyrics from “Pity the Child” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

“You did _what?_ ” hissed Lucius Malfoy.

Draco, standing at attention before his father’s desk, could barely hide the surge of triumph that he felt in this moment. He’d never seen his father look so shocked.

The older Malfoy had summoned Draco to his private study the instant Draco had arrived back home from Hogwarts. Now Lucius sat behind that immense mahogany desk, staring at his only son, his stone-gray eyes widened in stunned disbelief.

“I seduced him,” repeated Draco in a matter-of-fact tone, allowing just a hint of an arrogant smirk to cross his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, his stance relaxing, and gazed back at his father with exultant pride in his own pale gray eyes. “It was easy.”

Lucius’s eyes narrowed warily and his fleeting shocked expression turned hard, suspicious. “Easy?” he echoed in an icy, silken voice. “Easy . . . to seduce another _boy_ – Harry Potter – who’s been your bitterest enemy?” He studied Draco in steely silence for a few seconds. “Just how _far_ did this . . . seduction . . . go?”

“As far as it could have,” replied Draco smugly, fiercely glad that it was true, that Harry had talked him out of waiting, so that he could throw it up now in his father’s face. “We became lovers,” he stated, then cursed himself inwardly for the involuntary flush of heat that swept through him at the thought of Harry in his bed, knowing that his face was coloring in an all too revealing way. He looked down, away from Lucius’s cold, perceptive gaze.

Lucius rose from his chair and came swiftly around the desk to stand face-to-face with his son. He took hold of Draco’s chin in a rough grip and forced the boy to look at him. “You enjoyed it,” he stated flatly, his upper lip curled slightly in disgust. “Didn’t you?”

“I did what I had to do,” said Draco, pulling away, swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to keep control of the situation and sound cool and detached even as waves of desire and longing washed through him. He started to take a step back, but his father caught the collar of his cloak and held him in place.

“Don’t lie to me,” said Lucius, a taut, warning edge in his voice.

“I have _never_ lied to you, Father,” said Draco firmly in a low, offended tone.

“And I never raised you to be queer.” Lucius’s eyes were filled with repugnance.

Draco met the candid distaste in his father’s eyes squarely, his chin coming up with insult. “So what if I am?” he demanded defiantly. “So what if I had my pleasure from him before you take him and destroy him? The point is,” said Draco, regaining his confidence, “he trusts me now. He’ll come running to meet me whenever I ask. _And_ he’ll come alone. Unsuspecting.”

Lucius fixed Draco with a shrewd calculating stare for another few seconds while he considered that, then abruptly laughed and let Draco go. “So, you’ll not only turn over an enemy, you’ll betray a lover,” he said, his voice quiet, conniving. He walked back to the chair behind his desk and sat down, nodding thoughtfully. “I’m _beginning_ to like the idea. Go on,” he said. “I’m listening. What’s the rest of this brilliant plan?”

A small secret elated thrill ran through Draco. He pulled the two Portkeys out of his pocket and stepped forward to place them on the desk in front of his father. “These will take us to an abandoned Portkey hub between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade,” he explained. “It’s overgrown, forgotten and completely hidden from the road. I’ve already arranged for Potter to meet me there the day after tomorrow, at three o’clock. He believes I’m going to come back early from the holidays, so we can be together.”

Draco smiled craftily. “I’ll go first, alone, to meet him so that he thinks everything is okay, and to make sure everything is secure. Then you show up a few minutes later. All we need is another Portkey to bring the three of us back here after you put him under the Imperius Curse.”

Lucius looked up from examining the Portkeys. “He has the ring?” he asked.

“Yes,” answered Draco. “I made him promise not to take it off while I was gone.”

“And did _you_ put a spell on it?”

Draco’s eyes met his father’s steadily. “Not after I found out you’d put that will-sapping spell on it,” he said.

With a slight nod of approval, Lucius picked up one of the Portkeys and inspected it closely. “I can easily make a Portkey to bring us back here, but where did these come from?”

“Dumbledore, himself, made one of them for me,” said Draco. “I duplicated it to make the other.”

Lucius looked up sharply and frowned. “And why would Dumbledore make you a Portkey?”

Draco laughed. “I asked him to,” he said with frank bluntness, taking them back from his father. “This is my emergency escape route,” he said, tossing one of them into the air and catching it nimbly, then pocketing them both. “I told him I was afraid to go home. That I no longer agreed with your alliances and didn’t trust you.”

“And he believed you?”

“Oh really, Father,” said Draco scornfully, “that was the easiest part. Everyone there thinks you’re such an evil bastard, they were more than willing to believe that I hate you and want to defect. Well, except for Weasley, and no one listens to him.”

“And you are a fool if you think you can deceive Albus Dumbledore so easily,” said Lucius. He studied Draco, still frowning. “If Dumbledore made one of these, then he knows where it goes. Did you consider that?” he asked with rising anger. “If Potter disappears, that may be the first place they look!”

“And find what?” Draco countered evenly. “What I’ve planned will be fast and untraceable.”

“Suspicion will still fall on us,” Lucius snarled, “since you made such a point of telling Dumbledore that I am not to be trusted – not even by my own son, since he himself gave you that Portkey.”

Draco shrugged. “Actually,” he said, “my little love affair itself is the perfect alibi.” He faced his father’s displeasure with perfect composure and explained. “Dumbledore knows I’m involved with Potter and believes I’m completely sincere – so I intend to be utterly devastated by the news of his mysterious disappearance. If I’m asked, I will have spent a quiet holiday here at home while you were traveling right after Christmas. I never needed to use the Portkey and I won’t have any idea what happened to Potter.”

He leaned forward and put his hands on his father’s desk. “Father, they _trust_ me,” he said, stressing this. “It won’t be hard for me to act credibly upset that he’s missing and convince them I had nothing to do with it.” Draco straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest. “But _you_ , on the other hand,” he went on, “will have to set up some kind of alibi right away. I’m assuming you will want to take Potter away from here immediately, so perhaps . . . a business trip . . . would be a good possibility.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Lucius after a moment, still frowning. Then he sat back in his chair and a small evil smile curled at one corner of his mouth. “I have to admit, Draco,” he said. “I _am_ surprised. This might have actually worked.” Then he shook his head. “But, day after tomorrow is impossible,” he said decisively. “That doesn’t give me enough time to make the necessary arrangements.” He gave Draco a cool, reprimanding glance before picking up a sheet of parchment on his desk. “You should have let me know about this several days ago . . . as I asked you to.”

“But it has to be now,” insisted Draco, “while all of his friends are gone for the holidays and Potter is alone at the castle. The day after Christmas is the perfect time – the teachers will all be busy preparing classrooms and lesson plans for the next term, there are no formal meals – no one will think it’s unusual if they don’t happen to see Potter during the day. It will be hours, maybe even a whole day or more, before he’s missed.”

“That may be,” said Lucius dismissively, “but I still needed time to check with the others I’d planned to include – ”

“No!” said Draco. “No one else! This is _my_ plan – _our_ plan. If it fails, you can blame me and I’ll accept the consequences, but I don’t want anyone else involved.”

“This is too important to risk failure. The Dark Lord won’t accept any excuses. You know there can be only one possible consequence for you if this fails . . .”

“Of course, I know! And I’m fully prepared to face that. But it _won’t_ fail,” said Draco looking up at his father, the light of expected triumph shining in his face. “Do you really want to share the credit, the _achievement_ of capturing Harry Potter for the Dark Lord, with anyone else?” He leaned closer, his voice soft with excitement. “This act alone will guarantee that the Malfoy name will finally attain its rightful place in history – the place it has long deserved. Think of what you will gain! Your loyalty to the Dark Lord will be beyond question, your place at his side assured.”

Draco paused for a second, then slowly walked around the desk to stand next to his father’s chair. “Please, Father,” he pleaded. “Let us do this together . . . just us. Let it be our secret – until the very moment the surprise is revealed to our Lord.”

He went down on one knee, his head bent in deferential submission. “You asked me to come up with a plan,” he said compellingly, “to prove to you exactly where my loyalties lie and I have done that. I did this for _you_ , Father . . . and _only_ for you . . . to show you what I am capable of. I’m only asking that you to give me that chance. Let me do it the way I planned. Please.”

“Get up,” said Lucius roughly, though his eyes sparked with satisfaction. “The Malfoys kneel to no one save the Dark Lord.”

Draco stood, his eyes still downcast. “It will never happen again,” he said quietly, then looked up to meet his father’s eyes. “I promise.”

Lucius steepled his fingers against his chin and regarded Draco intently. “I will consider your plan. We will have to go over the details tomorrow evening after the ball – there are still some loose ends that I am concerned about. But for now, you may go.”

Draco bent his head, acquiescing, and went to the door. As he reached for the doorknob, his father called his name and he turned.

“Draco,” said Lucius, a trace of grudging respect in his voice, “well done.”

* * * * * 

Draco grinned as he shut the door to Lucius’s study and stepped out into the lamp-lit hallway, allowing himself this one moment of exultation as the long sought-after words of his father’s approval rang in his ears. Even if the words were offered a bit begrudgingly, Draco felt quite pleased with himself as he set off for his suite of rooms on the third floor – he _had_ done well. Very well, indeed. Not only were all the pieces of his plan now in play, but he’d won this small, previously elusive personal victory as well.

Not everything was settled of course; his father had not actually agreed to carry out his plan, but Draco was confident now that he would. He knew his father well enough to know that Lucius never agreed to anything straight away – his need to withhold agreement while he considered things was his way of maintaining the upper hand over anything Draco might have suggested. It had to be clear that it was Lucius who was in control and made the decisions.

Draco laughed to himself at how well he had played his part. He had expected his father to disagree about the rushed timing, but had deliberately informed him of that at the last minute to prevent him from forming additional plans. It had been a calculated risk and, aside from the fact that kneeling to the man had turned his stomach, Draco had prepared his arguments well in advance.

It was critical that his father agree to do this now because the spell on Harry’s ring was not permanent and would dissipate in strength slowly over the next two to three weeks. Draco acknowledged this fact with a lingering feeling of concern. The timing of this plan was everything and if his father didn’t agree to go through with it on the day after tomorrow . . .

Still, now that the nerve-racking interview with his father was over, now that the anxiety he’d felt for days, wondering if his father would even _consider_ his plan, could be put behind him, other realities came into focus. It was Christmas Eve, past time for supper, and Draco was tired and hungry. The train ride home had been infinitely tedious and tomorrow would be another excruciatingly long day – the Malfoys always entertained on Christmas Day, hosting a mammoth Christmas banquet with a formal dress ball afterwards.

Draco somehow had to get through tomorrow, convincingly acting the part of the smiling and gracious host, and then . . . the next day – the day he would see Harry for the last time – would come all too soon. At that thought, his brief sense of triumph deserted him. Winning his father’s praise now, he admitted, was a hollow victory at best. Its sweetness was fleeting and artificial, leaving behind an unsatisfying and bitter aftertaste.

House-elves, frantic with preparations for tomorrow’s festivities, ducked and scurried quickly out of Draco’s way as he strode through the front hallways of the immense and opulent manor that had been home to many generations of Malfoys. Portraits of Malfoy ancestors watched him from every wall with sly, cunning eyes, or vain, insipid expressions. They had not all been pale or blond, but each had his own individualized version of the distinctive Malfoy sneer. Draco felt that inbred sneer curling at the corners of his own mouth as he met their stares boldly. Their eyes followed him everywhere, always relentless, watching, he thought, for any sign of weakness. As far as he was concerned, they were all spies for his father and he treated them accordingly.

All he really wanted right now was to have supper brought to his room and to be left alone for the rest of the night. There were things he longed to think about. Like how much he missed Harry. And making love with Harry. He just wanted to lie in bed tonight and drown in last night’s memories. He felt miles and ages away from this morning when he had last held Harry in his arms.

Draco paused a moment outside the entrance into the great ballroom, then went inside. House-elves were rushing in all directions, putting the finishing touches on the banquet tables and the Christmas decorations. The black marble floor had been polished to such a brilliant sheen that Draco could see his reflection mirrored in it, as if he walked across the surface of a vast dark pool of water. Glittering sparks of golden light from a hundred candles floating overhead, and the darting rainbow hues of the fairy lights in the Christmas decorations, reflected in it too, seeming like underwater stars and tiny multi-colored comets.

He caught one of the elves that dashed past him carrying garlands of holly and sent her to the kitchen with instructions to have food sent up to his room. One good thing about being home, Draco mused as he continued on to his rooms, was being able to eat whenever, and wherever, he liked.

He saw no one else until he reached the second floor landing of the curved marble staircase, and then a voice called his name softly, as if not wanting to be overheard. Draco turned to see his mother standing in the doorway of her private rooms. When he paused on the landing, she came down the hall to meet him, pulling a thin gauzy shawl over her long white dressing gown, her light blond hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She reminded Draco of a ghost, pallid and insubstantial, gliding toward him down the darkened hallway. She was too thin, and her face, more pinched and gaunt than ever, still had its seemingly permanent, sour expression. But she must have been beautiful once, thought Draco sadly, before her marriage.

“You’ve been with your father,” she said quietly, almost accusingly, as she reached him. It was not a question, and yet it was.

“Yes,” said Draco, knowing at once that she understood the significance of that meeting – that she was quite aware of the conflict that had been escalating between her husband and her son over the last year and a half, and that since last summer Draco had been summarily banned from his father’s presence. And Draco knew, too, that she was asking him to tell her what was going on. “Apparently, I’ve been forgiven,” he said with feigned casual indifference in answer to the unspoken question, not willing to be more specific.

“Which can only mean one thing,” said Narcissa in a hard, knowing tone, “– that you’ve given in and obeyed him.”

“Mother,” said Draco a little impatiently, wanting to placate her and escape, “it doesn’t matter –”

Narcissa’s hand closed on his wrist, cutting him off; her fingers were cold and when she spoke again, her voice was trembling. “Listen to me,” she said urgently. She hesitated, glancing around, then drew Draco back into the shadows of the hallway. “I don’t know what he’s asked of you, but you are seventeen now,” she said in a very low severe voice. “He will expect you to make certain choices . . . ask you to do things . . .”

She broke off with a small shiver, then went on in a whisper, “. . . things . . . that you _must not do_ . . . no matter _what_ he says.”

“Don’t you think I know exactly what he expects?” hissed Draco softly, his temper flaring, lightning-quick. “Or what he wants me to do?” _Where were you when he was casting the Cruciatus Curse on me?_ he thought bitterly.

She drew back slightly, seeing the anger in his eyes. His eyes were so like his father’s and yet . . . unlike . . .

“I _know_ what I have to do,” he said with inarguable finality.

It was a finality that frightened her, and she saw then the pain that lay behind the anger in his eyes. “Draco, no. Please,” she said, suddenly dropping all pretense of sternness and begging. “You are my only child. You are the one thing in this world that I have ever truly loved . . . and I know . . . you have every right to despise me. I always did what he wanted . . . and did nothing to protect you from him. I was too afraid.” Her fingers tightened around his wrist. “I was never strong,” she whispered, her eyes filling up with tears. “But you are. Don’t let him take you. Don’t let him turn you into the monster that he is.” She clasped his hand with both of hers, clinging. “Draco, promise me you won’t become what he is. Please . . . promise me that I . . . won’t lose you, too.”

The last words came out with a strangled sob that tore straight into Draco’s heart, ripping away his anger as if with a jagged blade, and he pulled his mother into a sudden embrace. She felt wrath-like and frail in his arms and grief choked him. It was too late, far too late for this.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” he said, his voice breaking. He held her for a few seconds longer, wishing there was something else he could say, some kind of explanation. “He has given me no choice,” he whispered finally, then wrenched away abruptly, his throat filled with an aching sorrow as he fled up the stairs to his rooms.

* * * * * 

Draco entered his suite, shutting the door and leaning back against it, shaken to the bone. _Oh, bloody hell._ His mother. He’d never seen her cry. But much worse, he’d never given one thought to her, never _once_ had he considered if his plan might hurt her. He’d been so focused on Harry, worrying about Harry’s feelings, so caught up in his own feelings for Harry . . .

_“You are the one thing in this world that I have ever truly loved . . .”_

He pushed away from the door and crossed the sitting room blindly to go into his bedroom. Slamming the bedroom door behind him, he threw himself down on his back on top of the bed, eyes tightly closed, his arms wrapped tightly over his chest, holding in the anguish that threatened to explode inside him. How could he have planned something that would leave her devastated . . . and alone?

_“Promise me I won’t lose you.”_

Draco groaned softly, appalled.

When he’d devised his plan, he’d acted in the belief that – like a Pawn perfectly positioned to make an unexpected and pivotally strategic move that would bring about the capture of the opponent’s Queen – Draco Malfoy was expendable. It was the Pawn’s position, its movement in the game that was important, not the Pawn itself. The Pawn was merely the means to achieve an end – no one cared if it was sacrificed and taken from the board. Draco had been no one’s love; there had been no one who would miss him or care what happened to him.

He hadn’t considered his mother’s feelings at all in his planning, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have known this – that she loved him so very much. He hadn’t had any idea before of what she’d told him tonight. And as for Harry, never, in any of his expectations of reality back then, was being loved by Harry Potter a possibility. So that belief, that he was alone, that no one cared, had given him the freedom to act as he needed to. The only thing he’d had to overcome then had been his own selfishness, his own fear. But now . . .

_“Don’t you know that if anything happened to you now, what I would regret for the rest of my life would be the future we never got to have, all the things we never got to do together?”_

Harry’s words rang in his memory clearly, haunting and so dear . . . and almost unbearably heartbreaking. The memory of all that Harry had wished for their future came back to him now in agonizing detail, and the immensity of what he was giving up crashed down on him. Hot tears slid from under his lashes and ran down his temples into his hair. He swallowed hard against the painful constriction in his throat, then opened his mouth slightly, breathing in short, shallow gasps. This was twice now that he’d been reduced to tears. If he had never cried in his life before last week, it seemed now that he couldn’t stop.

Harry had opened him up, broken down his inner walls, exposed him and made him feel. And now everything stung, like acid poured on raw skin. He both loved and despised this change in himself. It meant he’d finally let someone get close, let someone in under his masks and armor and indifference. But oh, God, why did it have to be Harry? Why did he have to love the one person on the whole bloody planet that he couldn’t have simply because the very fact that he loved that person forced him into a choice that would surely break them apart. He bit down savagely on his lower lip. Why did _he_ have to make this brutally unfair choice?

 _What choice?_ he thought then, in anguish. _When did I ever have a choice?_

He clearly remembered when the first dawning awareness had come to him that his life didn’t have to be irrevocably bounded by the beliefs of his father, only to have that be swiftly followed by the realization that no matter which way he went, it still was. He thought back to that long ago summer after fourth year, after he’d confronted Harry and was hexed on the train, and how he’d spent the summer coming to grips with his newly discovered feelings for Harry. How his sudden baffling fear for Harry’s safety had gradually revealed itself as something even more inexplicable.

He’d tested his father then, pushing boundaries, skirting or refusing his father’s requests, trying the edges of Lucius’s limited patience. That was when the Cruciatus Curses had started – the supposed Dark Mark training. And he’d taken it all, all of his father’s callousness and abuse, hardening his heart to it, waiting. He’d had no plan then, no hope . . . no choice. Even now, with his plan in motion, his only choice had been between acting or being used – and one of those options was so completely unthinkable that the idea of his having a choice was ludicrous.

But here, tonight, alone in his room without Harry to touch and soothe him, now that he was no longer distracted and consoled with kisses and sweet words, and had only the final grim inevitable outcome of his choice staring him starkly in the face; now he could not hold back the feelings of unfairness and desolation that he’d managed to keep at bay at Hogwarts and the tears poured out of him like a bitter salt tide.

A terrible heaviness filled his chest, as if a great weight bore down on him so that he felt he could barely breathe. He pressed the back of one clenched fist to his mouth to stifle a sob, but it came anyway, and for several long minutes he abandoned all thought and gave up fighting it, letting the uncontrollable flood take him.

He’d been rigidly taught, had believed, that tears were a sign of weakness. But it wasn’t the tears now that made him feel weak. It was his inability to shut out the pain. And certainly it was weakness to be railing against what had to be done. _Why did he have to make this choice?_ Because there was no one else who could do this, and it was too important – he could not let anyone’s pain stand in the way of it – not his, not Harry’s, not his mother’s. He knew the answer to his question. Had always known it. There simply _was_ no other choice.

Draco opened his eyes and stared up at the dark canopy over his bed, taking several deep breaths. Impatiently, he wiped away the wet, tell-tale tracks of his inner battle with the back of one hand and the wrist of his sleeve. He’d held back so much while he’d been with Harry, perhaps this momentary breakdown had been inevitable. But resolve, and yes, resignation, too, both familiar emotional allies lately, were stirring in him again, bolstering his determination. He remembered the moment on the train coming home when his eyes had stung with unshed tears. But he’d fought them then and had to do the same now – had to wall up his heart all over again and go on.

He heard the outer door to his rooms open. A second later, there was a timid knock on the door to his bedroom. “I is bringing up your dinner, sir,” said a small, squeaky voice.

“Just leave it out there,” called Draco gruffly, and he heard the soft clatter of a tray being set down and then the far door clicking shut again. With an effort, he got up and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He’d gone all day without eating, having not eaten on the train, and before that, skipping breakfast because he had gone out to write the note to Harry in the snow.

The heavy weight in his chest lightened a little at the memory of that, easing his dark thoughts for a moment, and a small smile turned the corners of his mouth, softening his tense face. He might never know if Harry had even seen it, but it had been something he couldn’t resist doing even if it _was_ silly – a last declaration, a last happy memory he would have, imagining Harry finding it, and hopefully something that Harry would remember with pleasure too . . . someday.

Standing up, feeling shaky and yet somehow more confident, more sure in his purpose, Draco made his way into the sitting room and his dinner. His hand crept up to find the pendant he wore under his shirt – Harry’s Christmas gift – the most tangible of the many gifts Harry had given him. Touching it gave him so much comfort. There was still so much he wanted to remember and think about. Maybe . . . maybe he didn’t have to wall up his heart just yet. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Tonight, he’d promised himself his memories.

* * * * * 

At Hogwarts, sitting in one of the chairs by the fire in Draco’s room after dinner, Harry was alone on Christmas Eve for the first time in years. Either Ron, or both Ron and Hermione had stayed with him over the holidays before, and he missed them. He smiled, thinking of Ron, and tried to imagine how his friend was going to handle giving Hermione her engagement ring. Picturing their smiles and the no doubt delighted surprise of their parents made him very happy for them . . . and immensely lonely. He wished again that Draco had not insisted on going home.

More than anything, he missed Draco.

The concern he’d felt that afternoon for Draco had returned full force. Draco had to be home by now, facing his father. Harry was very worried about that, hating the distance that separated them and the anxiety of not knowing what was happening. Was Draco safe? Would he be able to come back? What if he was in trouble and couldn’t use the Portkey? So many things could happen, so many ifs. Two days seemed an eternity to wait.

And though Draco was uppermost in his mind, the other boy was not Harry’s only worry. He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled, folded piece of parchment. Unfolding it, Harry studied Cho’s letter again. He’d read it over and over in the couple of hours since he’d received it, until he practically had it memorized.

He reread it again now, biting at his lower lip fretfully, alternating between being furious with himself that this had happened and being furious with her for waiting so long to tell him. He almost wished she’d never told him. No, that wasn’t true – she’d had to tell him, of _course_ he realized that, but oh God, it just shouldn’t be happening at all. There were a thousand reasons that it was just so wrong. And yet – and Harry felt rather reproachful with himself for this – the beginnings of excitement and thrill were stirring in him too, as the initial shock wore off.

Cho and her new husband had arranged everything so neatly – they had been quite sensible and careful, and he had to be grateful for that. All this time, though, he thought angrily, for six months she’d let him go on, blissfully unaware of the secret she bore. It was beyond exasperating. But perhaps she’d been right to do so, he admitted finally, to give him time to heal his hurt feelings. If he’d known before now, before he’d understood why she’d slept with him in the first place, before he’d been able to forgive her . . .

He read one paragraph near the end of the letter over again for maybe the hundredth time:

  


> _I truly never imagined this would happen, Harry, and I feel so stupid for not doing_  
>  _anything to prevent it that night. But I want you to know that now that it has_  
>  _happened, I’m very happy about it. I know you, and how much you wanted this, so_  
>  _maybe it was somehow meant to be. Lian and I both want you to be involved, and so,_  
>  _in accordance with his family tradition, we’ve agreed that you should name her._

  


Harry folded up Cho’s letter and stuck it back in his pocket. He sighed deeply and slumped back into the chair, pulling off his glasses and turning his head to stare into the blurry glow of the fire. Stupid – yes, that was exactly how he felt. Incredibly stupid. What he wanted wasn’t this, not like this, not now. But . . . _her_ . . . oh, God. Knowing _that_ made it so frighteningly real and undeniable – and . . . and breathtaking. 

He’d have to tell Draco about this as soon as he got back day after tomorrow . . . and that was another worry. How would Draco react? Would he understand? Harry fervently hoped so, and then he shook his head with a soft, self-mocking short laugh. Here he was full circle, worrying about Draco again.

He’d decided he didn’t want to return to the deserted Gryffindor dorm tonight, preferring to stay here in Draco’s room overnight. He had gone back to the dorm briefly to pick up some changes of clothes after dinner and his room had seemed cold and dark and almost foreign with all of his friends gone. For a moment, too, on his way back to the Slytherin tower, he had wondered if he should tell Professor McGonagall where he was. But he hadn’t – telling her that he was staying in Draco’s room would require far too many explanations.

If they couldn’t find him for a few hours, well, Harry wasn’t going to worry about it. He had enough to worry about already. And he didn’t want anyone feeling like they should keep him company. If he couldn’t be with Draco, he wanted to be alone so he could think about Draco, and he didn’t want to have to explain that to her either.

God, he wished he could know what was happening to Draco right now – just to know he was safe. He closed his eyes, picturing Draco as he’d last seen him, standing in the doorway, smiling sadly, wishing Harry a “Happy Christmas,” then tried to imagine where he would be, what he might be doing now, on Christmas Eve. What was his home like? Would he be with his parents . . . or alone in his room? What kind of room did he have there? All of these questions circled through his mind and Harry realized there was so much he didn’t know about Draco yet.

Harry remembered the sensation he’d had earlier this afternoon, of thinking of Draco and suddenly feeling as if they were actually together, so real was the illusion of touch, the beating of that heartbeat that echoed his own. Wondering about that now, curious, he breathed deeply and centered himself, thinking of Draco, this time deliberately reaching out with his thoughts through the magic. And almost instantly he felt it again, the closeness, the steady echo of a second heartbeat inside him . . . and a wash of emotion so strong . . .

* * * * * 

Draco stood at one of the windows by the desk in his sitting room, his picked-over dinner plate pushed away to one side of the table across the room behind him. It was too dark to see much outside, just the pale blue-violet moonlit snow stretching away from the house across the gardens, but he wasn’t seeing even that.

In memory, he stood at the window of his room at Hogwarts, looking out over the castle grounds as the snow fell, reliving the moment when Harry had said, _“God, Draco, how could you imagine I would regret making love with you? I know how uncertain things are.”_ Then Harry had touched him so gently, Harry’s next words nearly breaking Draco’s heart at the thought that he’d been so wrong – that there was no way that Draco could keep Harry from being hurt.

Then Harry had begged, in a voice that was soft and warm and tender, _“Please don’t make this something else we never got to share with each other.”_ Those words had shattered all of Draco’s best intentions, his resistance evaporating like mist before the sun . . . and Harry had come into his arms, irresistible and inviting; his to kiss, to hold, to love. Harry wanted him – no matter what. Draco had felt dizzy with that knowledge.

They’d held each other for a long, amazing moment, teasing each other in whispers, and then Draco had kissed Harry the way he’d wanted to for so many days, holding nothing back, knowing, _knowing_ what would follow and that he wanted it . . . had wanted it for _ages_ , it seemed. Harry had unbuttoned Draco’s shirt, and little thrill tremors had run all through him when Harry had touched his skin. He’d felt melted and unable to think as Harry took his hand and led him to the bed.

That had been only yesterday . . . and yet it felt like a lifetime ago. Draco turned from the sitting room window with a sigh, and walked into his bedroom, absent-mindedly flicking his wand to put out the lamps. As he undressed in the dark by his bedside, more memories surfaced – of two wands and a pair of glasses discarded hurriedly to the night table, of Harry slipping Draco’s already unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders while they kissed again beside the bed.

With a small shiver at that last memory, Draco slid into bed and lay on his back, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach, and let the rest of his memories carry him away . . .

They stood by the bed a moment, kissing each other, both of them shy and eager, anticipation and need building in waves of heat between them. Draco felt light-headed; his heart was pounding. He felt the delicate brush of Harry’s fingers at his wrists and over the backs of his hands as Harry tugged at the cuffs of Draco’s shirt, pulling the sleeves down his arms and off. Draco wrapped his bare arms around Harry’s waist and the shirt dropped unnoticed to the floor.

Harry pulled slowly out of the kiss and then arched back a little within Draco’s embrace, his hands going between them to undo his own shirt buttons. Draco released him slightly and then helped by taking hold of the shirt at Harry’s waist and pulling the shirttail out. A moment later, Harry’s shirt also fell to the floor. Draco lifted one hand and ran his fingers lightly down the length of Harry’s body, from the base of Harry’s throat down to the top of his jeans, a bare whisper of a touch, and he saw Harry respond to that touch, closing his eyes with a sharply indrawn breath.

Draco felt a deep sense of awe then, that Harry should be so moved by his touch. Harry was strikingly lovely – dark tousled hair and black lashes lying against his flushed cheeks, his lips parted slightly, and as Draco watched, Harry opened his eyes. There was so much love and desire kindling in those shining green eyes that for a moment Draco was lost in them, as lost as he had been the night Harry first kissed him.

Never in his life had he wanted to be so much, or give so much, to another person. He sat down on the edge of the bed, overcome with his own feelings of love and desire, and Harry sat beside him, pulling him into another soft, stirring, thrilling kiss, holding onto him with those wondrous, gentle hands that could fill him with fire and magic at a touch.

They broke apart, breathing hard, and for one suspended second their eyes met, and suddenly they were toeing off shoes and shedding jeans and boxers and socks into a jumbled pile on the floor. Harry slid into bed, moving over to the center to make room as Draco got in too.

Draco lay down on his back and reached urgently for Harry, wanting skin against his skin, wanting the solidness of Harry’s weight on him, needing Harry’s mouth not to be separated from his . . . maybe ever again. Harry was reaching for him, too, leaning over him, so close that their noses bumped slightly. But then Harry pulled back just a little. Looking up into Harry’s eyes, Draco saw a question there, as Harry stilled, his body not quite touching Draco’s.

“Forever?” asked Harry in a breathless whisper, vivid green eyes holding Draco’s gaze earnestly, his fingers coming up to draw a tender caress across Draco’s cheekbone.

For a half a second, Draco paused, his heart flying into a thousand broken, melted pieces. He wanted desperately to say it back, wanted to swear it like an inviolable vow, but if he did, would it be a lie?

He tightened his arms around Harry, pulling Harry down, and Harry slid his hands under Draco’s shoulders, moving over so that he was lying fully on top of him. The body contact between them was suddenly intense, and Draco held on tightly, his eyes closed and his heart pounding. Harry bent his head, resting his forehead against Draco’s for a moment, his breathing fast and uneven, then he lifted his face and Draco opened his eyes, meeting Harry’s gaze steadily.

“Forever,” Draco whispered back, and hearing the assurance and certainty in his own voice, knew that it wasn’t a lie, that he was Harry’s totally, for however long forever could be for them.

Lying now in his bed at home, Draco remembered this with a deep ache in his heart; the smothering heaviness he’d felt earlier filled his chest again, this time with intense longing. He remembered how deeply Harry had kissed him after that, how passion had ignited like need-fire between them, and how Harry had pressed him down, moving against him so that Draco pressed back up under him, wanting to be so much closer.

The incredible searing newness of this, heightened and inflamed by their long pent-up desire, rushed through them both in a rising flood of emotion and arousal, bringing them to the edge so fast . . . Harry had abruptly broken the kiss and buried his face in the curve of Draco’s neck with a drawn strangled moan just as Draco arched up under him, clutching Harry with knees and hands, feeling as if he was sliding off the rim of the universe, his bones turned to liquid fire. Holding Harry, clinging tightly as warmth and love and a sated radiance spread through his body, Draco was distantly aware that he was trembling and Harry, too, was trembling in his arms.

Draco turned over now, curling onto his side, wishing he was back at Hogwarts, that he could simply reach out his hand and find Harry there to hold him and love him again. He felt empty and bereft, desperate suddenly for Harry’s touch, needing the comfort only Harry could give him. And then, just as suddenly as he had wished it, Harry _was_ there with him. The sensation of Harry’s presence was so real, it made his breath catch.

It was not Harry so much physically, as the feel of the magic he could do that Draco sensed. Draco could feel the magic flooding through him, calming and consoling, just as if Harry was with him. The peacefulness of the spell invaded him and the heaviness he’d felt fell away, leaving him light and weightless, feeling as if he could float.

Closing his eyes, he let the feeling ease all his worries, his longing and the fear. Harry did love him, and he loved Harry back with all his heart. He laid one hand just above his heart and his fingers closed around the pendant he wore. “Please remember that I loved you, Harry,” he whispered, then let the comfort of the spell drown out his conscious thoughts, and relaxing finally, drifted into sleep.

* * * * * 

The sensation of being with Draco came easily to Harry – he could feel the humming vibration he always felt when doing the magic with Draco and the echo of a heartbeat just next to his own, but this time, underlying that, was a deep sense of sadness, of longing so intense it was painful.

_Draco . . . oh, God._

Harry felt the pain inside himself as if it were his own, and for a second he was struck with a terrifying jolt of fear that something was wrong, that Draco was in trouble or even hurt. But a moment later he knew. He recognized that very familiar pain, heart to heart, as the profound longing ache of missing someone you love, and knowing what it meant, he was moved and deeply touched.

The love he felt for Draco welled up in him and without stopping to think if it was even possible, Harry whispered the words of the calming spell and imagined the spell traveling out through his thoughts, through this emotional connection they somehow shared. He imagined touching Draco and letting the reassuring comfort of the healing spell flow from him to the other boy, exactly as if he were actually with him. And just as if they were together, he felt the spell taking effect, quickly soothing and replacing the hurt and loneliness, and for a moment it seemed they shared a deep peace together.

Harry didn’t know if what he was imagining was true – if Draco really felt the spell or if, perhaps, he had actually only cast the spell on himself – but he hoped that somehow Draco had felt it. But a moment later he felt such a strong surge of love; it was pouring through him like an incoming tide, and Harry knew this feeling. It was exactly like the night he’d first done this spell at Draco’s request and first experienced the sense of being joined through the magic, when they had seemed to dissolve into each other and Harry, casting the calming spell on Draco, had felt a flood of love spilling back into himself from Draco.

Harry felt this now, the bonding, the joining, and the love that streamed between them. There was no question in his mind now that this was really happening. “I love you, too,” he whispered, his heart filling with quiet joy at this miracle, that they could be together even now, while miles apart.

In a little while, the spell slowly dissipated, and Harry, greatly reassured about Draco, went to bed and slept soundly.

* * * * * 

Draco woke slowly, his first thoughts of Harry and of what had happened last night. It had most certainly been real, and he didn’t need to understand how it could happen to know that somehow Harry had been able to reach him with the touch of his magic even here, so far away. The effect of the spell seemed to linger within him, or perhaps it was just the knowledge that Harry could still be so close, but there was a deep sense of calm inside him this morning and he felt much more ready to face the long day ahead.

Sitting up, he found his breakfast tray on the bedside table. Christmas breakfast at Malfoy Manor was traditionally served to the family in their rooms. He ate a little, then unwrapped the presents he found at the foot of his bed. From his father, he received books – first editions of two rare 17th century Potions books – at least his father knew him that well, he thought, wondering, too, if anything other than money had been employed in their acquisition.

As usual, his mother had given him the dress robe that she expected him to wear today – dark blue velvet with silver trim and a touch of lace at the wrist. It was nice, but not as stylish as the ones he and Harry had worn to the Yule Ball. She had also given him a light gray cashmere sweater and a new pair of black, dragon skin flying gloves. Running his hands pensively over the soft wool of the sweater for a moment, he decided that he would wear it tomorrow to meet Harry, then he picked up one of the books.

It was a beautiful text, with charts, formulas, and elaborate pen and ink illustrations of potions ingredients, and Draco turned the pages carefully, reverently. It was a waste of time, of course, to read these books – but Draco spent the morning doing so anyway, unable to resist them. Eventually, a house-elf had appeared to tell him that his mother was asking for him downstairs and he had reluctantly put the books away. The morning spent reading in his favorite subject, however, had taken his mind off everything else and the continuing sense of calm he’d woken with persisted as he dressed for the banquet.

When he got downstairs, most of the guests had already arrived, and were gathered in the massively decorated, candlelit ballroom. Long tables covered with wine-red damask table linens and laden with all kinds of rich delicacies and hors d’oeuvres, sliced meats, puddings and other sweets were set at intervals along the far back wall. Smaller tables covered in burgundy linen and white lace, each decorated with a lighted candle set in a holly garland, were arranged along the other walls leaving the center of the room for dancing. A small orchestra was playing soft ambient music in one corner. House-elves wearing tea towels with the Malfoy crest kept the tables full of food and brightly colored drinks.

Narcissa was still at the ballroom door, pale and drawn-looking in dark green velvet robes, greeting guests, a crystal flute of golden, chilled champagne in her hand. Draco slipped in past her while she was speaking to Madam Ramsbotham, a stooped, elderly witch with a sheephead cane, a predatory scowl, and an ancient, moth-eaten, ostrich-plumed hat.

Once inside the ballroom, he spotted his father across the room, holding court within a circle of gentlemen that Draco was fairly certain were all Death Eaters. He headed for the tables of food, intending to eat, to let his parents see him in attendance, preferably without having to speak to either of them, and then after the obligatory dancing with the daughters of his parents’ friends, to make an unobtrusive disappearance.

The idea of dancing with these girls made him shudder to himself. He dreaded it because he always felt put on display – the girls simpering up to him, each hoping to be the one to catch the interest of the immensely eligible and wealthy Malfoy heir. This year he knew he would hate it more than ever – because he’d danced with Harry.

Draco joined the line of guests filling plates at the banquet tables, nodding at a few of his parents’ friends that he recognized. Crabbe and Goyle were there with their parents, and were already sitting at a table, stuffing themselves from plates they had piled high. He rolled his eyes when they waved their forks at him. He joined them a few minutes later, his plate laden with much more modest helpings of everything.

Eating with Vincent and Greg didn’t really appeal to Draco much, but he didn’t want to sit alone. That would be an open invitation for some girl or other to sit down with him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He also knew his old roommates would be far too busy eating to care if he talked to them and that was another thing he wanted to avoid – he wasn’t in the mood to have to carry on polite, social conversations with anyone today.

However, about five minutes later he caught sight of Pansy sitting with her parents and froze for a split second with his fork halfway to his mouth. Draco swore inwardly, greatly annoyed with himself. Of course she would be here. He couldn’t imagine how he’d been so stupid as to have forgotten that. She’d finally left him alone in the train compartment, but Draco was under no illusions that, if given a chance to continue it, she would let their conversation on the train drop.

As many guests finished eating, Draco saw his father give the signal for the dance music to start, and the room was consequently filled with the sound of violins and flutes soaring into a waltz. Several older couples drifted out onto the dance floor, and Draco got the distinct prickling sensation on the back of his neck, that several girls had fastened their hopeful eyes on him.

“So, how many hearts d’ya think he’ll break today, Vin?” teased Greg with his mouth full, jabbing Vincent in the ribs with his elbow and jerking his head at Draco.

Vincent grinned at Draco. “All of ‘em,” he said, taking a large bite of cake.

Draco grinned back and picked up his goblet of punch, lifting it in a mock salute to Vincent before drinking from it.

“Don’t like the girls, our Draco don’t,” said Vincent knowingly to Greg as he chewed. “You know that.”

Draco nearly choked on his punch. He turned to look at Greg who was smirking back at Vincent and felt his face go hot. _Bloody hell!_ Did they really know? He set his goblet down. “Figured that out, did you?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage.

Greg guffawed. “We lived with you for six years, mate, and with the lot of girls drooling over you and you not liking even one back, well, that don’t take a genius to figure out.”

“And besides that,” added Vincent, “Pansy told us on the train.”

“She . . . _what?_ ”

“Yeah,” said Greg. “She thought it was going to be Big Shocking News, but we told her we already knew.”

“That _really_ got her knickers in a knot,” said Vincent, with a rude sniggering snort. He paused to bite off a half a piece of mince pie.

“So she said, all know-it-all-like then, that she knew who you fancied,” said Greg, picking up the story again.

“And we told her we didn’t care who you fancied as long as it weren’t one of us,” chimed in Vincent, “and that she should mind her own bloody business.”

“And what did she say to _that_ ,” asked Draco, looking from one boy to the other, momentarily horrified and practically holding his breath for the answer.

“She said, ‘Fat chance,’” laughed Greg. “Then she just screwed her face up, you know, like she does, and didn’t speak to us for the rest of the trip home.”

“We didn’t let her have none of the Choc’late Frogs she saved for you neither,” said Vincent.

“Ha!” gloated Draco. “Excellent.” For a moment it seemed like old times – the three of them had been practically inseparable once. He grinned and raised his goblet to them again, feeling enormously pleased. But before he could say anything else, as if conjured out of the air, the subject of their conversation plunked herself down into the one empty chair at their table.

“Oh, hell-o, Pansy,” said Greg with such an air of blatant innocence that all three boys snickered.

She gave them each a black look.

“Well, I’m off,” said Draco quickly before Pansy could start talking, rising from his seat with a smirk at the other boys. “Got this damn bloody dancing to get on with,” he added in a martyred tone, his previously amused expression changing to distaste as he turned away and surveyed the room. If he was lucky, he thought, as he headed toward the tables across the room, he could find Mlle Delauncey, a sixth year at Beaubaxtons whose grandmother had been friends with his grandmother. She, at least, could dance properly.

He had only gone a few steps however, when a hand slipped through his arm, tugging him back.

It was Pansy.

“What?” said Draco, turning and looking down at her irritably.

“Dance with me, Draco,” she said imploringly, keeping a tight grip on his arm. “I want to talk to you.”

“And whatever gave you the idea I want to talk to _you?_ ” he retorted in a lowered voice. “Greg and Vin just let me know what you told them on the train.”

“Oh, so what,” she countered defensively. “Evidently _I_ was the only one who didn’t know.” She glared at him, refusing to let go. “I didn’t tell them anything else, did I?”

Draco looked away impatiently, scanning the room for some excuse to escape. Perhaps if he spotted Mlle Delauncey he could claim a prior engagement. But instead of the other girl, he happened to catch sight of his father watching him, frowning in disapproval. Noting Lucius’s expression with interest, he changed his mind.

Suddenly it seemed that dancing with Pansy might have its little compensations after all. At least Pansy knew the truth about him and where he’d given his heart, and in addition to aggravating his father, it would serve to keep the other hopeful girls away. Draco smiled impudently at his father for a second, then turned and nodded to Pansy. “Come on then,” he said brusquely, and led her out onto the dance floor.

They danced in silence for several minutes – Pansy could tell that Draco was still put out, and she didn’t want him to be. “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “I shouldn’t have told them – but I was angry with you for yelling at me on the train – I was only trying to be nice to you.”

“And I had told you I wanted to be left alone,” said Draco frostily.

She sighed. This being-a-friend business was going to be far more difficult than she had expected. She guessed _Potter_ didn’t have to chip away at the ice wall that Draco always put up between himself and her. And thinking of Potter brought her to the subject she’d wanted to talk to him about.

Waiting a few minutes until they were not too close to any other couple on the dance floor, Pansy voiced her concern. “Did you really tell your father?” she asked in a strained whisper. “About you and Potter?”

“Yes,” said Draco shortly. “As soon as I got home last night.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Pansy, looking up at him skeptically, “since you don’t appear to have been dismembered. No visible hex marks, either.”

“I told you, I’m only doing what my father asked me to.”

She studied his inattentive face and shook her head, not at all fooled by his practiced, cavalier manner. “Draco, what are you really planning?”

“If I have to dance with you, I will,” said Draco with cool indifference, “but I am _not_ answering all these questions.”

“You love him,” she went on, ignoring this rebuff. “You told me so yourself, and I’ve seen it in your face.” She snorted. “You couldn’t even risk hurting his feelings by breaking up with him for five minutes without giving him hints so he knew you didn’t mean it! Don’t deny it,” she said at his frown, “I _know_ you did. And now you’re trying to tell me you’ve only been going along with something your father asked you to do? Well, I don’t believe it! So, I want to know – what are you _really_ planning?”

Draco eyed her seriously, perhaps for the first time in his life. “There is a war starting,” he said acidly. “So, tell me, Pansy, which side are you on? Do you stand with the rest of this herd of bleating sheep? Or on your own two feet?”

“I can think for myself perfectly well, Draco, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said tersely. But she shivered a little at the new intense look in his eyes, as if he wasn’t looking through her like he usually did, as if he finally saw her. “I have no particular reason to be loyal to that lunatic they call the Dark Lord,” she said. “Or to Dumbledore, either.” She lowered her eyes for a moment, screwing up her courage. “I would stand with _you_ ,” she said softly, looking up at him with determination, “wherever that is . . . if you would let me.”

Draco looked away. After a moment, he said, “That’s not good enough. You’re still acting like a sheep.”

“I am _not_ a sheep!” she said, drawing herself up indignantly. “I’m being . . . a . . . a friend, Draco. Potter said . . . if I cared about you, I should try being your friend. But you shut everyone out,” she added resentfully. “Everyone but _him_.”

Taking time to consider this, Draco danced with her in silence for several minutes. At least she hadn’t told Vince and Greg about Harry. “If you really want to help me,” he said finally, watching her carefully, “there _is_ one thing you can do.” Then one corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight, amused grin. “But it will be hard,” he said, teasing. “You won’t like it.”

“What?” she asked, offended at his mocking tone. “I can do anything you ask me to, Draco.”

“What will help me the most,” said Draco, turning serious, “is for you to keep your mouth shut and don’t interfere.”

She glared at him for a second, then twisted away angrily as if she meant to walk off the dance floor. But Draco held on to her and pulled her tighter against himself, forcing her to keep dancing.

“Let me go,” she snapped. “All you ever do is insult me – ”

“That wasn’t an insult,” he cut in insistently. “It was the truth.”

The sudden, unusual earnest tone in his voice caught her attention and she stopped fighting him.

He leaned closer, whispered in her ear. “Pansy, think! If you had told what you know to Vin and Greg and it had got back to my father – in fact, if my father suspects you know _anything_ at _all_ , it could ruin everything. If I’m going to trust you, I need you to swear to keep what you know totally secret – just between the two of us. Will you promise me that?”

His hair tickled her cheek softly and the brush of his mouth against her ear set tremulous fluttery feelings loose in her stomach. She let him sweep her around the dance floor one full turn before she gave him her reluctant but predictable answer. “Yes,” she whispered, and was rewarded with a dazzling smile that took her breath and made her forget everything else.

For the rest of the afternoon, he danced with her, and laughed at things she said, and brought her goblets of pink punch and plates of sweets. The jealous glares she got from several girls in the room was just icing on the cake. Oh, she laughed to herself, not able to resist gloating a little, if only they knew what _she_ knew. It wasn’t until she was in the carriage on the way home, mulling over the strange sense of solemnity that had colored Draco’s goodbye to her at the door, that she realized he’d told her nothing. She was sworn to secrecy and still had no idea what he was planning.

* * * * * 

Draco stood next to his father at the grand entrance doors to the manor as a soft blue dusk fell over the snowy lawn and the tall lanterns were being lit, saying goodbye as their last guests departed. He could tell from the set of his father’s jaw that Lucius was annoyed, yet the elder Malfoy was all that was charming and gracious as he thanked their visitors for coming and wished them a Happy Christmas. Draco had not made an early escape after all, and Lucius had plucked him from the ballroom to stand here at the door with the simple inarguable statement, “I want you out there with me . . . _now_.”

The long, formal flagstone walkway from the door to the drive, where carriages were lined up to receive the departing guests, was bordered with elegant topiary and had been swept free of the snow. But Draco, watching his father closely, saw him glance outside several times, his eyes narrowing in thought, to where one of the outside lanterns cast a faint golden glow over the snow-covered lawn. Draco couldn’t see what was attracting his father’s continued interest – the snow wasn’t even pretty there since it had been tracked up by the house-elf that had lit the lantern earlier.

Still, it was evident to Draco that his father was annoyed, and he hoped that it wasn’t with him. Well, he _had_ intended to annoy him a little with Pansy, but considering what was at stake, he hoped he hadn’t gone too far.

When the last guest had gone and the house-elves were closing and locking up the doors, Lucius turned to Draco with a hard look in his eyes. “Come to my study,” he said in a tone that allowed no refusal. “There are things we need to discuss.”

Draco followed him without a word, his heart beating rather fast in his throat. At a turning in the halls, Draco caught a glimpse of his mother standing in a doorway watching, one hand on the doorframe as if to steady herself, a half-full champagne flute in her other hand. He turned away quickly.

“I saw you with that Parkinson girl,” said Lucius as soon as they’d entered his study and the doors were closed firmly behind them. “And I saw the way she was hanging on you while you danced attendance on her all afternoon. Are you involved with her?”

“No!” exclaimed Draco, slightly startled by the abrupt question. “Absolutely not. Pansy is noth- . . . a friend.” He stared at his father, irritation surfacing in a rush. “I’ve already told you I don’t fancy girls,” he said blatantly, aggravated.

Lucius returned Draco’s insolent stare with an icy, commanding glare of his own, then turned his back and crossed the room to sit down at his desk. “I don’t care what you do or don’t _fancy_ , Draco,” he said severely. “But understand this very clearly now – whatever your . . . _preferences_ , you _will_ be married. You _will_ produce at least one heir to carry on the Malfoy name. And you will _not_ jeopardize that by getting involved with someone who is beneath you.”

Draco stiffened. He’d been expecting this, not that it mattered now, but still . . . “So who’s the unlucky girl?” he asked curtly. “I assume you have someone in mind?”

“Not yet, but you can be sure it won’t be Parkinson’s little chit,” said Lucius with a disapproving sneer. “She’s entirely too . . . unrefined, and her family is not at all in a class with us, socially or financially. I have contacts on the continent with eligible daughters much more . . . suited to our requirements.”

With a snort that was part amusement that his father actually agreed with him about his marriage prospects with Pansy and part derision at his father’s conceit, Draco raised one eyebrow. “I’m frankly surprised you haven’t arranged it all already,” he said resentfully. “I expected all year to be notified of my impending wedded bliss.”

“When the Dark Lord is victorious,” responded Lucius smoothly, “and we see who still stands with us, then will be the time to consider finding a suitable match for you.”

“Whatever you say, Father,” replied Draco dismissively, suddenly bored with the discussion. It really didn’t matter. “I will leave that in your much more _experienced_ hands,” he added, surprised that he managed to keep the sarcastic tone in his voice fairly understated.

“As you should,” said Lucius, ignoring Draco’s unsubtle dig at the state of his parents’ marriage. “Now, we need to discuss this plan of yours.” He waved to one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Sit.”

Draco sat down facing his father. “Yes,” he said, his interest recaptured immediately. This was what he had been waiting for all day. “What have you decided?” he asked impatiently.

“First, there is something you didn’t think of – a major flaw in your plan. I saw it as we stood at the door.” Lucius looked expectantly at Draco as if hoping he would figure out what it was, and a shadow of disappointment crossed his face when Draco shook his head slightly. “The snow, Draco,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “Potter will leave a clear set of tracks if he walks from Hogwarts to meet you. The trail will lead any search party directly to that Portkey hub, and since Dumbledore knows you have that Portkey, you will most certainly be implicated in his disappearance.”

Draco swore under his breath. His father was right; he hadn’t considered the snow. Thinking fast, he gave a small, unconcerned shrug. “What if he doesn’t walk there?” he asked. “I can write to him tonight – ask him to fly out on his broom. In fact, if he does that, I’m guessing he will leave the castle through the window in my room instead of going out the front door. That will confuse any search even more.” He raised one eyebrow impertinently at his father. “And surely _you_ know a spell for covering up any tracks we make at the Portkey hub before we leave.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes, looking as if he’d just bitten back a nasty comment.

“Well, that solves that,” said Draco, gazing appraisingly back at his father, meeting his stare straight on. “But really, Father,” he added with unconcealed contempt, “how careful do we have to be? When Potter is taken, it will be an open declaration of war. If we are successful and get Potter, it hardly matters then, does it, if they discover who did it?” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Or are you still afraid to openly proclaim which side you are on?” he challenged. “Maybe you were planning to plead the Imperius Curse again.”

“I intend to land on my feet whichever side wins,” snarled Lucius. “I have a lot to lose if I am careless.” He waved his hand at the opulent room they sat in. “And, need I remind you, so do you.”

“I’m well aware of what I have to lose,” said Draco in a low voice.

“Good,” said Lucius, rising from his chair. “I’ve taken care of all the arrangements for my so-called business trip tomorrow,” he said as he took a few steps to a tall thin cabinet and pulled open a small drawer. “In reality, I will be taking Potter away immediately to a place he can be hidden safely for a few days until we can present him to the Dark Lord.” He pulled a small black skeleton key on a silver ring out of the drawer and brought it back with him to the desk. “I’ve also made the Portkey that will bring us back here once we have Potter under our control,” he said showing Draco the key. “So write to Potter – tell him to fly to meet you.”

Draco grinned slyly. “Then you’re agreeing – to go ahead as I planned? Just us, no one else?”

“Yes, yes, as long as you take care of this detail. I have decided that the fewer people involved the better – the less chance there will be for us to be discovered. However, you must assume Potter will be careless and leave your letter where others can find it after he’s left. Make sure you don’t write anything that will give anyone else any clues about where he is.”

“Of course, Father,” said Draco readily. “I’ll go back to my room and write to him now.”

Lucius held up one hand to stop Draco from getting up. “No, that can wait. We have something else more important to discuss. There is something I require of you, before we carry out this plan.”

Draco sat back, eyeing his father guardedly. “And what would that be?” he asked, guessing before his father spoke what it would be, and what it would mean.

“If you are to stand with me before the Dark Lord, then you must do so as one sworn to be his servant. I’ve made the arrangements already this morning. There will be an initiation ritual tonight, right here. Then you can take your rightful place at my side . . . as a Death Eater.”

The floor seemed to shift crazily under Draco, and he unconsciously tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. “So I will take the Dark Mark?” he asked. “Here, tonight?”

“Not the Mark,” explained Lucius. “That will have to wait until we are with the Dark Lord himself. Only he can do that. But the initiation ritual that must precede the taking of the Mark can be done here. And that will expedite the marking ceremony when we are with our Lord.”

Draco nodded. This was a test and he knew it, a test he had to pass or forfeit his father’s involvement in his plan. It was also a game, he reminded himself. A game of control – the same he had played with his father all his life. A game he could play now as skillfully as he would any game of chess where strategies were hidden, where the pattern of true moves was concealed behind clever feints – and where indecision could be fatal.

His father was watching him closely. Just as one did not allow reaction to show at an opponent’s deadly countermove, Draco made his next move in the game with calm certainty. “What do you need me to do?” he asked without hesitation.

“The ritual is simple, though . . . unpleasant,” said Lucius. “I’m not allowed to tell you the details beforehand . . . but we’ve all been through it . . . and lived.” Lucius looked at Draco with a steely glint in his eyes that might have been a very transitory glimmer of humor. “Most importantly,” he continued seriously, “you will speak the preliminary vows that, once you’ve taken the Dark Mark, will bind you for life to the service of the Dark Lord.”

Draco nodded again, accepting this without a trace of vacillation. “When?” he asked.

“I’ll send my servant to wake you when it’s time for you to come down tonight,” said Lucius. “He’ll bring the robe you are to wear with him.”

Draco stood. “Until later tonight then, Father,” he said. “I’ll be in my rooms for the rest of the evening, and I’ll have dinner brought up there. I have a letter to write.”

* * * * * 

Harry woke on Christmas morning and was surprised and pleased to see that his presents were at the foot of the bed, even though he was in Draco’s room. Mrs. Weasley had sent him the usual stack of mince pies and a sweater – this one was a brilliant red with a pattern of flying Snitches worked into the weave. From Hermione, Harry got a set of books on teaching: _So You Want To Be A Flying Instructor_ and _The Finer Points of Teaching Quidditch_ , both by Horatio Broomsby. Ron gave him a new jar of Fleetwood’s High-Finish Handle Polish to replenish his old Broomstick Servicing Kit.

Harry smiled a little ruefully. Since no one but Draco knew about his plans to be a mediwizard, it seemed his friends were doing their best to encourage him in what they all thought he would have to do after graduation. Ron had also sent a huge box of Chocolate Frogs with a note that said, “Thanks for the help with the ring, Harry.” Harry smiled at that and had to take a moment to admire his own very-much-loved Christmas present ring. He decided to save the Frogs for when Draco got back.

At lunchtime, Harry went down to the Christmas feast in the Great Hall. All the decorations from the Yule Ball were still up and the room was sparkling and festive. Very few students had stayed over, so everyone was seated at one extra-long table with Dumbledore at the head and Professors Snape and McGonagall seated next to him on either side. Harry sat down next to a third year Hufflepuff and smiled back when Professor McGonagall nodded cordially at him.

Dumbledore pulled a large, shiny red Christmas cracker with Snape, seemingly oblivious to Snape’s thin-lipped disdain for the whole procedure, and with a loud _BANG_ was rewarded with a shower of Fizzing Whizbees and a straw sombrero with a bright pink flamingo sitting crookedly on the top. A fringe of little glowing, fuzzy purple balls surrounded the brim and they swung back and forth crazily as Dumbledore popped the new hat on his head. The headmaster beamed down the table at the teachers and students. “Tuck in, everyone!” he exclaimed. “Merry Christmas to you all!”

Everyone immediately helped themselves to the delicious feast. Harry sliced the roast turkey for the younger students at his end of the table and then filled his own plate. He wanted to talk to Dumbledore, so he ate quickly, part of his attention fixed on watching for the headmaster to leave, the rest of his mind preoccupied with missing Draco, who he suspected would have loved the cherry-raspberry trifle.

At long last, Dumbledore was getting up and moving slowly toward the door, exchanging a word or two with each of the teachers as he passed. Harry stood up, shoved his fingers in his back pockets because he was nervous, and waited.

“Professor Dumbledore, sir?” he said, as the headmaster approached. “Do you have a minute?”

“Certainly, Harry,” he said jovially, though his light blue eyes were serious.

“I . . . I just wanted to thank you for what you did for Draco,” said Harry softly, “ – for giving him that Portkey.”

“It was the least I could do, just in case he needed it,” said Dumbledore, regarding Harry very solemnly over the tops of his half-moon glasses. “Naturally, I am hoping that he won’t need to use it at all.”

“Oh,” said Harry, and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Dumbledore that Draco did intend to use it to come back early, but a sudden desire to keep that to himself stopped him. Obviously, they’d have to tell Dumbledore that Draco was back once he got here, but Harry felt the need to meet Draco alone. He was sure that Dumbledore would insist that someone, probably a teacher, should go with Harry to the Portkey hub, and Harry wanted to keep their planned meeting private – especially considering that what he wanted to do to Draco as soon as he saw him was not the kind of thing one usually did in front of a teacher.

“Yes, sir,” he said instead, his face going warm at the thought of seeing and kissing Draco and because he felt a bit guilty for keeping the secret. “I hope he won’t _need_ to use it, too, sir,” he added, and that was the truth.

Also, Harry knew he was going to have to tell Dumbledore about Cho’s revelation, but he couldn’t – not yet – not until he’d told Draco. He wanted Draco to know first, before anyone else found out how stupid he’d been. At that thought, he felt doubly guilty, and as Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to question him, Harry, feeling as if the headmaster could see right through him to read the thought straight from his mind, blushed crimson.

“Is there something else, Harry, that you wished to tell me?” asked Dumbledore lightly.

“Yes, er, no . . . I mean . . . Merry Christmas, sir,” stammered Harry.

“Ah!” said Dumbledore with delight. “Merry Christmas to you, Harry.” He tipped his funny hat, making all the little glowing purple balls swing wildly back and forth, and continued on his way out of the Great Hall.

Harry sank miserably back into his seat and dished up a large helping of Christmas pudding that, after eating a couple of bites, he found he had no appetite for. He poked at it for a few more minutes, then finally gave up and went back up to Draco’s room. No one seemed to have worried about his whereabouts the night before, or missed him, so he had decided to stay in Draco’s room again tonight. At least, sleeping in Draco’s bed, even if he was alone, helped him feel close and connected to Draco, the memories of what they had shared easy to relive in the familiar surroundings.

* * * * * 

Draco sat down at the desk in his sitting room. On either side of him, tall, narrow, mullioned windows looked out over the back gardens, the icy reflecting pool, and the snow-covered forest beyond. He laid his hands on the dark, polished surface of the desktop and sat still for a long moment. He closed his eyes, feeling the wood under his palms, cool and smooth and solid. The world had shifted under him just now without warning, though he should have known his father would do this. He felt dark and hollow inside, as if a black hole sat in the place where his heart should be.

But there was no way he could have known that the Dark Mark ceremony could be split, he reminded himself – and then immediately pushed that excuse aside. The time for struggling against this was over; in this, his father had won. Draco had been forced to give up one hope after another, until now, with this initiation ritual and the taking of these vows, whatever remaining flicker of hope he had harbored, though small and faint, had been extinguished. The ending which he had foreseen just days ago while standing in the path to the Portkey hub, the ending which he had always known was most likely inevitable, was now inescapable.

Draco clung for a moment more to the solid firmness of the desk beneath his hands, letting it bring him back to the reality of what he must do now, letting it help him focus on the present rather than in that cavernous darkness that yawned before him in the future.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Expensive parchment, embossed with the Malfoy crest, lay in a rosewood box inlaid with silver scrollwork near his left hand. His best quill, too fine to be used at school, stood in a faceted crystal holder next to it. He ran one finger lightly, pensively, over the soft white plume of the quill before he picked it up. It was foolish, he thought, to feel saddened by the sight of these familiar objects, but believing he would never see them again stirred up pangs of reminiscence and loss.

And yet – he took a look around his room – there was nothing still here that he really cared that much about. He’d taken the things he loved most with him to school at the beginning of the term, hidden in his trunk. That was the reason he’d had his grandmother’s chess set with him, that he and Harry had used for their game of dare chess. The rest of his things, he thought now with surprisingly little regret, could rot here.

With an unconscious shrug, he tucked his hair back behind one ear, pulled out a sheet of parchment and began to write:

  


> _Happy Christmas, Harry!_
> 
> _I wish I had been there with you today. Instead I had to dance all_  
>  _afternoon with Pansy. The only good thing about that was that it annoyed_  
>  _my father, who doesn’t approve of her as a match for me. At least we are in_  
>  _complete agreement with each other on that._
> 
> _I’m writing to let you know that I’m okay, so you won’t worry. My father is_  
>  _going away on business right after lunch tomorrow as I thought he would,_  
>  _so there shouldn’t be any problems. I’ll meet you at the station, just exactly_  
>  _as we planned. Please come on your broom and bring mine with you – I_  
>  _don’t want to have to walk back in all the snow._
> 
> _I miss you,_
> 
> _Draco_

  


Draco studied the wording carefully and nodded, satisfied. Except for the use of the word _station_ , which might momentarily confuse Harry, it was perfect. And Harry, Draco thought, would most likely dismiss that word as a trivial inaccuracy. What mattered was that nothing had been said that would be threatening or incriminating. In fact, just the opposite – it implied that he and Harry had innocent plans to meet each other at the Hogwarts train station when he returned at the normal time, that he was not in danger from his father and therefore had no need to use his Portkey. Yet Harry would get the message Draco needed him to, and believing that Lucius was going away would put Harry at ease. He wouldn’t suspect anything – exactly as Draco wanted.

He folded the letter carefully and standing, stepped to the window to call an owl. A blast of wind, cold and frosty and bracing, blew in as he opened the window. Draco stood for a second, breathing deeply, and it restored a great deal of his self-assurance and resolve. Perhaps he _was_ a Pawn, but even a Pawn, he smiled to himself, could take a Queen. He turned his face into the wind and whistled.

When the owl had been dispatched with the letter to Harry, Draco closed the window and sat down at his desk again. There were two more letters he had to write tonight, and these letters, he expected, would be the hardest things he’d ever written in his life. It might be better, he thought then, to start with the one that would be the hardest of all. He took out another piece of parchment and dipped his quill into the inkpot, but before he could begin, there was a soft knock and the door to his sitting room opened.

He turned and motioned for the house-elf to set his dinner tray down on the table.

“Will sir be wanting anything else?” she asked in a trembling, squeaky voice.

“Just see that I’m not disturbed again until my father sends for me tonight,” he answered.

“I is seeing to it immediately, sir,” she said brightly, evidently greatly pleased to have been given an order by the heir of the house. She gave Draco a deep, bobbing curtsy and left.

Draco turned back to his blank parchment. Dinner could wait. After taking a moment to sit with his eyes closed, gathering his thoughts, he wrote:

  


> _Dearest Harry,_
> 
> _I hope with all my heart as I write this . . ._

  


It took him nearly two hours to write it; the hole that sat where his heart should be felt as if it had expanded to fill his entire chest and his throat burned from swallowing back tears before they should fall and ruin the ink. But when it was done, and he’d read it over twice, a faint sense of peace settled over him. At least . . . at least he’d explained things the best he could. Harry might not be able to forgive him, but he’d said all he could say.

Harry had already forgiven him so much, and that was still an enormous source of surprise to Draco. But Harry loved him. And Harry had said he wouldn’t regret what they’d done. Draco could recall the words perfectly. _“God, Draco, how could you imagine I would regret making love with you? I know how uncertain things are.”_ A new, small feeling of hope kindled in Draco. Did he dare to hope that Harry’s words could also stretch to mean: _“how could you imagine I would regret loving you?”_ Maybe . . . just maybe, Harry would understand and forgive him this, too.

With a deep sigh, he folded this letter, then stood up to stretch the stiffness from his back and neck and saw his dinner, long forgotten and cold, still sitting on the table. He reached under his desk, sliding his hand along the underside of the right-hand drawer until he felt a tiny indentation. Pressing that opened a little door cleverly hidden in the carving on the upper panel of the desk. Draco tucked the letter into that small compartment and snapped it shut. He didn’t intend for anyone to see that letter until he handed it to Harry tomorrow, himself.

_Tomorrow . . . could it possibly be so soon?_

The candles in the lamps had burned lower; it was getting late and there was still one more letter to write. He had no idea when his father would send for him and this third letter had to be finished tonight. But, now that the letters to Harry were done, he found he was hungry. The ritual tonight would be challenging he was sure – he would definitely need all his strength and all his wits about him. He went to the table, cast a warming spell on the plate of food and sat down to eat.

Only a short time later, he was back at his desk, a third sheet of parchment laid out in front of him, writing quickly but with a great deal of calculated thought. This letter was not emotionally draining like the second one to Harry had been, but it was one of the most critical elements of his plan, so it was vital that he choose his words with deliberate care. The ultimate success of everything he’d planned depended on this letter. Finally, that letter too was finished, scrutinized carefully, and hidden away.

Draco put out the lamps with a wave of his wand and went to bed. His father’s house-elf would be there to wake him soon enough, and he intended to get at least a little sleep before he had to go down to whatever his father had arranged. Lying in bed, he wished that he had Harry here to do the sleep spell on him, or even to just touch him. It was amazing to Draco that the simple touch of this one certain person, just a hand lying warm and gentle on his skin, could make him feel so loved. He’d never felt loved before in his life. Turning over and pulling one of the pillows tightly against his chest, he closed his eyes and hoped that the respite and welcome oblivion of sleep would come soon.

* * * * * 

Harry was spending a very quiet evening in Draco’s room, curled up in the chair in front of the fire reading the books Hermione had given him, hoping to take his mind off his concerns for Draco. He was halfway through Chapter One, “Your Broom is Your Friend” in _So You Want To Be A Flying Instructor_ , when there was a distinct tapping at the window. Harry looked up, startled. An owl? _But who . . .?_ he thought, and then with sudden hope mingled with fear, he dropped the book and rushed to the window.

One of the Malfoy eagle owls stepped in to stand on the wide sill as soon as Harry got the window open, and presented its leg. Harry’s heart was pounding and his fingers turned clumsy in his haste and anxiousness to unfasten the letter. The owl took off in a flurry of wings as soon as Harry got it untied, but Harry barely noticed, for he had recognized Draco’s handwriting on the front. Without even bothering to close the window, Harry tore off the seal.

 _“Happy Christmas, Harry!”_ he read, and grinned in relief. If Draco was in trouble, he wouldn’t have started out with such a cheery greeting. Harry read through the rest of the letter, frowning at the thought of Draco dancing with Pansy, and feeling profoundly grateful for whatever business made Lucius Malfoy have to leave home on the day after Christmas.

He stumbled over the word _station_ , reread it, then shrugged. The Portkey hub _was_ a sort of station, he guessed, but the important part was that Draco was going to be able to come back as they’d planned. And the idea of flying there made Harry smile with delight. If Draco was willing, Harry hoped they might go flying together again before coming back to the castle. That would make the day perfect.

He was very glad now that he hadn’t told Dumbledore that Draco was coming back early. This way they could spend the afternoon flying and come back in time for dinner. At dinner, Harry made himself promise, they would explain to the headmaster what had happened. Harry closed the window finally, and went back to his chair by the fire. Picking up his book, he settled down to read a bit more before going to bed, his earlier worries now all but forgotten in his excitement.

Draco would be back tomorrow, safe and sound, and everything was going to work out all right.

* * * * * 

Draco was awakened by several pokes from a skinny finger. For half a second, he thought wildly that it was Harry, but it was only Nobby, his father’s personal house-elf.

“I is getting you up for the Master,” he whispered. “And you is to wear this robe.”

Draco groaned and fumbled for his wand on the night table. “ _Lumos_ ,” he said, and the tip lit up, illuminating the earnest, wide-eyed face of the house-elf whose arms were full of an elaborately embroidered, folded dress robe. Draco sighed, sat up on the edge of the bed and checked the clock on the night table. God, he’d only slept about four hours. He ran one hand through his hair and glared at the elf. “When am I supposed to be down there?”

“As soon as you is ready, sir,” said the elf. “The Master says come to his study and knock on the door. He says you is to come right away, as soon as you is dressed.”

“Right,” said Draco, feeling far from ready for this, dressed or not. He took the robe from Nobby and the elf bowed and left the room. With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Draco got up and waved his wand to light the lamps. He unfolded the robe and laid it out on the bed. It was made of green brocade shot through with silver embroidery that glittered subtly in the lamplight. The design woven into the fabric was very intricate, appearing at first glance to be an overall series of intersecting circles and spirals, but when Draco looked more carefully, he realized that he was looking at patterns of entwined silver snakes.

It figured, he thought, frowning: green and silver and snakes. He never wore green, it made him look sallow, and snakes had been . . . well, entirely overdone in his life. Leaving the robe on the bed, he went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and combed his hair. In the mirror, as he moved, the light caught the crystal in the pendant he wore, making it flash, and Draco had a moment of intuition perhaps, that it would safer not to wear it tonight. Reluctantly he took it off and went to his desk, hiding it in the same hidden inner compartment with the letters he’d written.

Closing the little door, locking away this symbol of his heart’s truth, filled him with a heavy sadness. He walked back to his bedroom to get dressed, his mood depressed, weighed down by the seriousness, the finality, of what he was about to do.

Leaving his room in the very early, secret hours before dawn, Draco walked alone down the curved marble staircases and long, night-dark hallways of the huge manor; his path lit only by the dim, clouded moonlight that fell from the tall windows in faint arched stripes across the dark parquet floors and pale, antique Aubusson carpets. His quiet footsteps echoed in the silence of the deserted halls as he made his way purposefully to his father’s study. The robe he had been given to wear was heavy and uncomfortably stiff, though he had not allowed such a trivial thought to fully surface in his awareness. All of his attention was focused on staying calm, on appearing unruffled and confident.

But walking alone in the silence and the darkness, the deep, oppressive solitude of the cavernous hallways bore down on him, and suddenly his sadness resurfaced and an engulfing wave of loneliness swept over him. A single, betraying wish, that he was not facing this trial, which was then instantly also a wish for the gentle reassurance of Harry’s touch, the steadying comfort of Harry’s embrace, caused him to halt abruptly in the shadow of some ancient Malfoy ancestor, one pale hand braced against the cool, paler stone of the statue. The comprehension of all Harry had given him, the miracle of Harry’s love and trust, flooded through him once more, and his head bowed in longing so intense it was several moments before he could take another step.

Yet, as important as it had been for Draco to win Harry’s trust, it was now critical that he show loyalty to his father. He reminded himself once again, and a little impatiently this time, that his commitment to what he was doing here now, to his plan, went far beyond his personal feelings for Harry. That was simply how it _had_ to be. This was war.

And this was his chance, his best and possibly _only_ chance to have a significant effect on the outcome of that war. It was no time to go soft, or to let his emotions rule him. Even if it had been love that had brought him to this, he could not allow that love to influence his decisions now. Remembering this, after a minute or two he managed to reassert his determination, regaining enough self-control and composure to go on.

He truly had not anticipated this test, this last stratagem of his father’s, and bitter distrust welled up in him as he approached the tall, ornately carved teak doors of his father’s study. He could hear low voices speaking inside the room, and a small knot of fear twisted in the pit of his stomach. This afternoon, Lucius had told him only a little of what would be expected of him tonight. Remembering all too well the evenings Lucius had used him for ridicule and sport, sometimes even casting the Cruciatus Curse on him, no doubt in front of some of the very same men he would face tonight, Draco wondered now what cruel or humiliating things he would have to endure before the night was over.

He reminded himself that it didn’t matter – whatever the demand, whatever the cost to his dignity, it was imperative that he prove himself and earn his father’s trust. If becoming a Death Eater tonight was what his father required for proof of his loyalty, Draco would willingly give him that proof.

He stood still for a moment in the enveloping darkness outside Lucius’s study, just long enough to steady his nerves, to straighten his robe and steel himself for what was waiting for him behind those closed doors. Then, with a last deep breath, he set his fears aside, shutting out all of his conflicting thoughts, especially of Harry. He couldn’t think of Harry any more now. Because of what his father was asking of him tonight, any remote hope he had cherished in secret, that things would not turn out as he’d foreseen, was shattered.

For tonight, he must become his father’s son. And the price he would pay for that was irrevocable.

The voices in the room fell silent at the sound of Draco’s soft knock, and after a moment, the door opened. Lucius slipped out, closing the door behind him, facing Draco in the dark hallway. He was dressed in a black hooded cloak, a mask tucked under one arm. In one hand he held two ivory-colored candles, unlit.

“This will be one of the most important events in your life,” he said sternly, “and the most serious vow you will ever take. Tonight, you will become the youngest member of the most powerful and elite group of wizards in the world.” Lucius paused, studying Draco’s face intently, and placed his free hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Are you ready?”

Draco met Lucius’s eyes squarely, expecting from long habit to see the usual scorn in his father’s eyes, assuming too, that the next words Lucius spoke would surely be the customary cynical warning that Draco must not embarrass him. Instead Draco was stunned to find his father’s gaze full of fierce pride for his only son. Draco was suddenly, devastatingly aware that, perhaps for the first time in his life, he had his father’s full attention and unreserved approval.

The irony of this stung bitterly and he had to swallow down the anger and hurt that burned in the back of his throat before he could reply. “Yes, Father,” he said, lifting his chin. His voice sounded clear and self-assured, and no trace of his emotions betrayed him. “I’m ready.”

Lucius squeezed Draco’s shoulder tightly, then released him and handed him the candles. “Light them,” he said.

With a slight nod, Draco pulled out his wand. “ _Incendio_ ,” he murmured, igniting both candles at once.

“This fire will seal your vows,” said Lucius with formal gravity. He put on his mask and raised his hood, then took one of the lighted candles from Draco. “Follow me,” he said quietly, as he opened the door.

Draco stepped into the darkened study behind his father. Tall votives of emerald glass floated near the ceiling, the candles inside them lighting the room with an unnatural green glow and casting eerie, shifting shadows. Hooded, masked Death Eaters stood shoulder to shoulder in two rows starting on either side of the door, forming an open path between them that led to a table placed at the far end of the room, their white masks luminous in the dim green light. One man, shrouded completely in black stood behind the table, faceless and inscrutable. In his black-gloved hands he held a third unlit candle.

Following his father and keeping his eyes fixed firmly straight ahead, Draco walked slowly down the aisle of Death Eaters, gripping his burning candle tightly, feeling as if the stares of the masked men bored into his very bones, the enormity of what he was doing shivering up his spine like a finger of ice. He reached the table and stood at his father’s side before it. Silently, the shrouded figure held out his candle, and Lucius held his own candle forward, signaling Draco to do the same. Simultaneously, both Lucius and Draco tipped their candles to the unlit wick, their flames joining together to light it.

With that candle, the man in the shroud lit a fourth large pillar candle that stood at the far left side of the table. While he did that, Draco had a moment to notice the other items that were set out on the table. The surface of the table itself was covered with a cloth of ivory linen. Placed in the center upon it was a silver candelabra with three branches that were fashioned like intricately entwined snakes whose now empty open mouths would hold the candles.

To the left side of the candelabra were set an ornately carved wooden box with a design of pierced filigree running around the top edge just under the fitted lid, a small, shallow pewter bowl, and a larger, deep silver bowl. To the right stood an empty silver chalice and a crystal decanter of red wine, both with emerald and bloodstone and onyx cabochons set in silver on their sides, and a small glass jar covered with a tightly stretched fabric.

In front of those things, Draco saw with a chill, lay a long, silver dissecting tray and a silver handled dagger that resembled a scalpel. Draco looked up at his father. Lucius’s eyes behind the mask reflected sparks from the candlelight, but told him nothing.

Draco glanced away, back down at the table before his father should see something in his eyes that he would prefer to keep to himself, and startled, another chill shocking through him, as something dark moved within the wooden box, the slight movement just visible through the filigreed openings that circled the sides. Something alive was in that box –

The shrouded man behind the table spoke and Draco wrenched his gaze from the box to look up at him.

“We light a fourth candle tonight to honor and invoke the presence of our absent Lord,” he said. His voice was deep, vaguely familiar, but not enough for Draco to identify him. He lifted one hand and held it up, palm outward. “The candles are lit, the Ritual of Initiation has begun,” he said solemnly. “Let no man present here dare speak of what is done tonight.”

Placing his candle in the center branch of the candelabra, he turned to Lucius. “Who brings this Initiate here, to be joined with us in service to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order?”

Lucius set his candle in the candelabra. “I do.”

“State the name of the Initiate and your relationship, that it may be recorded.”

“Draco Malfoy,” responded Lucius. “My son and heir.”

Turning to Draco, the figure spoke again. “And do you, Draco, come here of your own free will, to join us in this service by the binding of this ritual, swearing eternal loyalty and submitting your life and your will from this time forward to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order?”

At a nod from his father, Draco placed his candle in the third branch of the candelabra. He felt a cold trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. “I do,” he said firmly.

“Then by heart and tongue, by tooth and blood, let it be done as you have sworn,” intoned the man in the shroud, raising his arms out as if to embrace the room. “Let the ritual proceed.” Then he motioned with a small gesture to the Death Eater standing on Draco’s left. “Chain him.”

The man stepped forward and in his hands were black chains of iron. These were wrapped around Draco’s wrists so that Draco’s hands were loosely chained together in front of him. Draco felt the cold hard metal of the iron links pressing against his skin, binding him, and he shut his eyes for a moment, uneasy. When the chains were fastened, the man stepped to the side, and the shrouded man spoke again, this time to Draco.

“These chains are a symbol,” he said, “that henceforth you are bound in service, a servant of the Dark Order and of our Lord and Master.” He paused, then said, “The Initiate will kneel.”

Draco went down on his knees and behind him he heard the soft rustling of robes as the Death Eaters moved to form a tight circle around the three at the table. Draco kept his eyes on the shrouded man, for he was moving the objects on the table aside, setting the candelabra down on the far right hand side of the table and bringing the wooden box to the center.

Lifting the lid slowly, the man paused a moment, then with one swift darting movement of his gloved hand, reached in and drew a live snake from the box. The snake, which he had grasped behind the head and held aloft, writhed in the air and twisted around his wrist.

Draco recognized it at once from the dark zigzag stripe down its back. It was an adder, and Draco also understood immediately why the man wore gloves – to protect himself from its poisonous bite.

With his other hand, the shrouded man picked up the small, fabric-covered jar and forced the snake to bite down on the rim. Draco watched, fascinated, as drops of yellowish venom flowed down the inside of the glass and pooled at the bottom of the jar. When that had been set aside, the Death Eater standing to Draco’s left, the one who had chained him, reached forward and grasped the tail of the snake. There was a hushed stir of expectancy in the air, a sense of tacit excitement as the Death Eaters surrounding Draco waited, tense with anticipation, watching with dark, glittering eyes behind their masks, and Draco heard the soft rasp of their breath in the surrounding silence.

Held between the men, the snake was stretched out and laid lengthwise on the silver dissecting tray, its body twisting in their grip, the pale underbelly reflecting in the shining surface of the tray. The man in the shroud lifted the dagger and spoke.

“This snake is the symbol of our Master,” he said, his low voice resonating in the stillness of the room, “and its death, and life, the sign of the Dark Lord’s mastery over Death, and the proof of His Immortality.” He looked down at Draco, the dagger now poised over the neck of the snake. “Death you shall eat and in your own body you shall share in the symbolic resurrection of our Master.”

With those words he quickly severed the head of the snake and slit its still moving body open lengthwise. In a few swift, practiced moves, he removed the snake’s heart and placed it in the shallow pewter bowl, then he held the headless body up by the tail, draining the blood into the silver chalice. Draco watched all of this with a mixture of distaste and detached interest – it had happened so fast – until it hit him suddenly that chalices are meant for drinking out of . . . and his stomach lurched and his mouth went cottony dry.

The shrouded man laid the now limp body of the snake back on the dissecting tray, and taking up the dagger again, opened the mouth of the severed head and cut out its tongue. This also he placed in the pewter bowl. He nodded at the Death Eater on Draco’s left and the man covered the snake’s remains with a black cloth. Then he nodded at Lucius who removed the center candle from the candelabra and passed it to Draco.

Draco took the candle in both hands, relieved to find that his hands weren’t visibly shaking, though the chains around his wrists clinked softly.

After pouring wine from the crystal decanter over the heart and tongue, the man in the shroud gestured to Draco. “Burn them,” he instructed, and Draco set the flame of the candle into the contents of the pewter bowl. Immediately, the wine ignited and there was a blazing flare of fire that engulfed the heart and tongue in a rippling sheet of blue and orange flames. Lucius took the candle from Draco and replaced it in the candelabra as they all watched the body parts shrivel and blacken until, in a few moments, nothing was left but smoldering ashes.

“By heart and tongue, by tooth and blood, we serve Him,” intoned the shrouded man. As he spoke, he mixed the ashes and the venom from the jar into the blood in the chalice, then added wine from the decanter. He drew his wand and with an elaborate swish over the top of the chalice, spoke the words of a spell.

“ _Exvoromors Pariovita_ ,” he said in a forceful and commanding voice. A thin, snake-like stream of translucent green smoke flowed from the end of his wand and encircled the foot of the chalice, wrapping itself around and around the cup in an ascending spiral until the entire chalice was enveloped in it. After a few seconds, the smoke began to dissipate and Draco saw a faint greenish glow emanating from the contents of the chalice, a glow that pulsed and ebbed, as if with a heartbeat of its own.

“Brothers of the Dark Order, we are called tonight to witness this Ritual of Initiation and the drinking of the Cup of Death and Life,” said the man in the shroud, his voice low and resonant in the deathly quiet room. Lifting the glowing chalice in both hands, he began an invocation.

  


> _“With this cup we swallow death,_  
>  _with this cup we conjure immortality,_  
>  _with this cup we are forever chained,_  
>  _with this cup, swearing loyalty with our lives,_  
>  _We are named.”_

  


Draco felt the small hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the words reverberated in the silent room, and he shivered. After a half-second’s pause, the man in the shroud inclined his head at Draco and said, “Let the Initiate rise.”

His legs felt stiff and unsteady from kneeling and it was awkward to get up in the long heavy robe with his hands chained together in front of him, but Draco stood and faced the shrouded man. The man nodded slightly and continued the incantation. As he spoke, the words pierced Draco with a dreadful finality.

  


> _“By the flame of your own wreaking,_  
>  _by the burning heart and tongue consumed,_  
>  _by the venom flowing forth from tooth to vein,_  
>  _by the draught of living blood,_  
>  _You are claimed.”_

  


He paused, then spoke again. “Draco Malfoy, by your life and the drinking of this cup, you swear to be bound eternally to the Lord Voldemort, immortal Lord and exalted Master of the Dark Order.” He passed the chalice to Lucius. “Do you so swear?”

“I do so swear,” responded Draco, and Lucius placed the chalice in his hands. The pulsing glow had dimmed, but to Draco, the dark red blood and wine mixture now appeared black in the green light of the floating candles and suddenly the room seemed suffocatingly hot. It was hard to breathe. Draco felt his hands trembling as he lifted the cup to his mouth.

With the first mouthful, Draco nearly gagged. The potion was thick and warm, and tasted sickly-sweet and metallic from the wine and the blood and gritty from the ash. He gulped it down quickly, fighting the repulsion and the reflexive urge to retch. Lowering the empty chalice, he swallowed thickly, and immediately felt queasy.

The chalice was taken out of his hands and he looked up to see his father replace it on the table. Then as Draco watched, the shrouded man drew his wand again and pointed it directly at Draco. His father moved closer to him and the soft rustle of robes on Draco’s left told him that the man who had placed the chains on him had done the same, but Draco’s eyes never left the hidden face of the man in front of him.

“ _Exvoromors Pariovita!_ ”

Draco recoiled slightly as the pale green smoke snaked across the table toward him, but strong hands gripped his arms on either side to hold him in place. He felt a second of intense panic when the smoke touched him, but the tight pressure on his arms prevented him from moving. He closed his eyes, fighting nausea, while the stream of vapor slithered over his hands and began coiling and undulating up his chest to his throat. A chilling, wet, clammy sensation spread out from its touch, like something cold and dead but moving, and Draco had to struggle to hold himself still as it crawled around his neck.

When it reached his mouth, Draco broke out in a cold sweat and nausea gripped him completely. _Oh God._ Something seemed to be churning and twisting inside him, making his stomach cramp. He didn’t care about the smoke now – all he could think about was how sick he felt. His knees threatened to give way beneath him and he was dizzy. He opened his eyes for a second and everything seemed to tilt and blur out of focus; the candle flames swam crazily in the darkness and he shut his eyes again quickly, feeling even sicker.

His pulse was racing; the writhing and pain in his gut intensified. He swallowed hard, but his mouth was full of the aftertaste of the blood and . . . _oh . . . oh God . . ._ He was going to vomit right here, in front of his father and all of these men, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to cover his mouth with his hands, but other hands caught his wrists and pulled them away. Something cool and metallic bumped up under his chin, and his eyes flickered open to see that someone was holding the large silver bowl in front of him. He was only vaguely aware of a low voice saying, “Hold him,” and of the hands that held his arms gripping him tighter, before he retched violently over the bowl.

At first nothing came up, and then something monstrous was coming up and he gagged. It seemed to go on and on forever, sliding, burning, up his throat, over his tongue and out his mouth; it was hot and slick and tasted of blood and acid. Draco strained against the hands that held him, his own hands clenched into fists, unable to breathe because it obstructed his throat.

He opened his eyes again and staggered slightly where he stood, horrified to see the body of a live adder coming out of his mouth into the bowl. His knees buckled under him from the shock, and he inhaled a desperate, ragged breath as the snake’s tail finally cleared his throat and he could breathe again. The shrouded man was speaking, but Draco heard his voice as if from a distance and it was an effort to concentrate to catch the words.

“. . . Ritual of Initiation is complete. The immortal symbol of our Lord . . . restored whole and alive. . . . Our newest brother, Draco Malfoy, stands before us . . . fully invested . . . Death Eater . . . to take the Mark of the Dark Order in three days time . . .”

Draco battled against the dizziness and revulsion that threatened to overwhelm him, trying to keep standing, but the room seemed to be spinning around him and the candlelight wavered and dimmed alarmingly. His throat was raw and a cold numbness was creeping through his arms and legs. He was only barely aware when the hands that held his arms moved to catch him as he fell, then everything went dark around him and he fainted.

* * * * * 

Draco woke up in his own bed just before noon the next day. He felt groggy and ill, and the thin winter sunlight that streamed in his window and across his bed through the partially open bed drapes was particularly offensive this morning. _What had happened? Why was he undressed . . . and in bed? He didn’t remember getting in bed . . ._ And then memory slammed him – he’d passed out during the initiation ritual. _Oh God, no._

Panic and despair welled up in him and he was filled with a deep abhorrence for everything he had done last night. No doubt he’d shamed his father beyond all reckoning. And if that was the case, what would happen to his plan? Had it all been for nothing . . . just because he’d been too weak to remain standing until the end? He covered his eyes with one hand, shutting out the light, wanting to shut out this sense of futility and failure . . . If he really had failed beyond all saving, there was still the coward’s way out; there was still the Portkey – 

The door to his room opened and he heard footsteps, unmistakably his father’s, crossing the sitting room toward his bedroom. For an instant he felt a rush of alarm, his hand going to his throat, until he remembered that he’d hidden Harry’s pendant. He struggled to sit up, and a wave of weakness and queasiness assailed him, but with an effort, he managed to prop himself up against the headboard of the bed and draw his knees up to help brace himself. If he had to face his father’s anger and disappointment, he didn’t want to be lying down.

“Draco?” Lucius strode into the bedroom and straight to the bedside. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Draco looked up at his father in confusion. This solicitous concern was not at all what he had expected. “Ghastly,” he said, his voice coming out raspy. He had to know how things stood. Was his father angry? “I . . . I’m sorry, Father,” he said, “that I passed out. I’m afraid I’ve disgraced you.”

“No,” said Lucius, “on the contrary, you did very well. Everyone loses consciousness – it’s merely the effect of the poison you drank.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “More than one of those men that watched last night screamed like a girl when they went through the Initiation.” He reached out and gripped Draco’s shoulder firmly and squeezed. “I was proud of you last night. You proved yourself to be much stronger than I expected.”

Draco closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headboard, uncertain if he felt relief or dismay at this revelation. His plan was safe, but the thought a moment ago of using the Portkey, of running away from all of this, had filled him for a few seconds with wild hopes . . .

“Thank you, Father,” he whispered.

“Come now,” said Lucius, turning away for a moment and then turning back with a goblet in his hands. “You need to drink this,” he said. “It’s a restorative potion. You were given the antidote to the poison last night, but this will counteract the remaining side effects of that and of the revivification spell.”

Taking the cup from his father in slightly shaky hands, Draco examined the contents suspiciously as a vividly disgusting memory of the nasty black, green-pulsing stuff he’d been forced to drink last night came back to him. But this potion was a clear golden color, like apple cider, and the cup was cool in his hands. He found out from the first tentative sip that it didn’t taste as nice as it looked, but it _was_ cool and soothed his sore throat, so he willingly drank it down.

“And I’ve had Nobby bring up a tray of food,” said Lucius, taking the cup from Draco and moving away. “You should eat something and then get cleaned up. Nobby is to stay and help you.”

Draco noticed the elf then for the first time, standing just behind Lucius holding a silver tray laden with pastries, sandwiches, and a teapot.

“Yes, sir,” said Draco.

Lucius went to the door. “Get ready quickly,” he said. “It’s noon now. I’ll meet you downstairs no later than two o’clock to review our plan. We’ll activate the Portkeys from my study.” Then he swept from the room, leaving Draco facing the dutiful house-elf.

“Put that down out there,” said Draco, indicating the tray and the sitting room. “Then you can go,” he added firmly. “I can take care of myself.”

“But . . . but, sir,” said the elf, his voice going squeaky and trembling, eyes widening in something very like terror at the sudden unthinkable dilemma of having the two men he had to unquestionably obey giving him completely opposite instructions. “Master is saying I must stay and help.”

Draco put his feet out of the bed and stood up. The potion had indeed done its work very quickly and very well. He felt completely recovered. “And _I_ am telling you,” said Draco, taking the tray out of the elf’s hands to forestall any further argument, “to go.” He walked into the sitting room carrying the tray with Nobby following closely at his heels, then set the tray on the table and opened the outer door. “I don’t need or want help right now,” he said sternly, but not unkindly. “I want to have some time alone. Go hide in the kitchens if you don’t want my father to know you’re not up here. But go.”

With a squeaky whimper, Nobby crept hesitantly out the door, wringing his hands. “Yes, sir,” he said as Draco closed the door behind him. “Thank you, sir. Nobby is definitely hiding in the kitchens, sir.”

Alone, Draco sighed and sat down to eat. He felt ravenous after what he’d been through last night. God, what an appalling, horrible ordeal, he thought, and shuddered. He poured the tea and wrinkled his nose up at it, wishing it was hot cocoa. For a second he considered calling Nobby back. Tea and fancy little sandwiches. He sighed again and picked up a jam-filled pastry, eyeing it disdainfully before taking a bite. No, this was not _his_ idea of a last meal at all.

* * * * * 

At two-thirty on Friday, the day after Christmas, Harry was in Draco’s room getting ready to leave. He’d had lunch earlier with Hagrid, wisely declining a second helping of holiday rock cakes, and was now bustling about, straightening the room and making the bed. After setting the fire roaring in the grate so that the room would be warm and welcoming for them later, he collected his cloak and gloves and Draco’s broom.

He was grinning from the anticipation, more excited that he could remember being in a very long time. But there was a taut, high-strung edge to his excitement, too, that he knew wouldn’t go away until Draco was safely back here in this room and back in his arms.

Ready at last, Harry opened the window panes wide and mounted his Firebolt. Rising slowly off the floor, he guided the broom carefully through the window, Draco’s Nimbus Two Thousand and One tucked securely under one arm. Hovering just outside, he reached back and pushed the panes closed, leaving them slightly ajar, just as Draco had on the day they had gone flying together, so that they could return that way unnoticed.

Then with a broad smile, he sent his broom streaking across the Hogwarts grounds, and straight out over the forest toward Hogsmeade. He knew he’d be there a little early, but he could hardly wait to see Draco again.

* * * * * 

Draco stood under the shower so that the water hit the back of his head and neck, streaming down in hot rivulets over his shoulders and dripping from the tendrils of hair that fell over his face. He tried not to think of Harry’s body, wet and warm and soapy in his arms, or how Harry had grinned and leaned into him as Draco washed his hair, or how his bright green eyes had closed in pleasure when Draco had kissed the droplets of water from his face. But it was impossible not to remember, impossible not to want Harry to be with him here now, and that intense longing that had claimed him so profoundly in the hallway last night threatened to undo him again.

Turning around to let the water pour down on his upturned face, he thought about the startling change in his father instead. That _“well done”_ he’d earned the night he returned from Hogwarts had been grudging, but last night before the initiation and this morning, the praise his father had given him had not been reluctant at all – it had been real and honestly given. Draco hadn’t actually known his father was capable of that kind of sincere sentiment or expression, and it had both touched him and hurt.

He had finally gotten his father’s respect – the respect he had always wanted from this man, had believed he wanted even two days ago when he’d burned that letter in his room. How ironic was it, Draco thought cynically, that it was given to him only now, after it had become meaningless, because of the very thing he’d done to earn it. It made him ache inside to think that things could have been so different. If only his father . . . but he stopped himself from thinking that, too.

There was no time now for thought, only time for doing – there were many things he had to do before he went downstairs. He focused on those instead, and realizing how little time he had, hurried out of the shower.

At five minutes before two, Draco stood at the window in his sitting room, dressed and ready to go, watching the owl he’d just sent disappear over the distant forest. He was wearing the soft gray wool sweater his mother had given him and his heaviest black wool cloak. His new flying gloves were in one hand; his other hand rested just above his heart, his fingers absently tracing the outline of the pendant Harry had given him which lay under his clothes.

Tucked into an inner pocket of his cloak was the letter he’d written to Harry and in a side pocket were the two Portkeys. He just needed to get the return Portkey from his father before they left and he knew exactly how he would do that. Then everything that he’d planned to do would be done; the outcome trusted to rest, after that, in other hands.

Once the owl was out of sight, Draco turned and left his room. He left everything behind him in perfect order, and he left without hesitation, without a single backwards glance. He felt remarkably calm as he made his way down the stairs to his father’s study – only a few last things to do and then he would be free from everything – free from the pain, the worry, free even from the love that had enchanted and possessed him and torn his heart to pieces.

That last thought hurt very much, but it was true. Right now, more than anything, Draco longed for peace. Except for the ephemeral, seductive illusion of peace he’d experienced when Harry did the calming spell, there had never been peace anywhere in his life. Perhaps that was the one last hope he held onto – that in giving up everything, he would finally find that peace.

He entered his father’s study without knocking, knowing he was expected.

Lucius was seated at his desk, quill in hand, writing. He looked up briefly as Draco walked in. “You’re late,” he said, and resumed writing.

Draco shrugged and sat down in one of the chairs facing his father. “We have time,” he countered.

“Not as much as you think,” said Lucius, still writing, “since I had some important things to talk to you about before we go.”

“Yes, Father?” Draco kept his face carefully neutral, though his stomach had clenched. _Now what. . . ?_

Lucius set his quill back in its stand and gave Draco a stern look. “I thought you should know my plans for the next few days. It’s possible I may need you to join me sooner than we discussed.”

Draco nodded occasionally, pretending to pay attention, as his father explained at length where he would be taking Harry and what would be done, told him names and addresses of the business connections he was using as alibis and the details of the meeting he had arranged with the Dark Lord in three days. There, after turning Harry over, Draco would take the Dark Mark.

Draco only half listened, his mind on Harry – hearing, now, all that his father planned to do to Harry, he felt sickened. He stared at his father and saw the man for what, in a short time, he would most certainly become and wondered at himself, that he could have been such a sentimental fool only an hour ago.

“I’ve written these names and addresses down,” said Lucius, indicating the parchment in front of him. He drew his wand and murmured a spell.

Draco saw the writing vanish from the page.

“I trust you can remember how to read this,” said Lucius, handing the now blank parchment to Draco.

“Of course.”

“Put it somewhere safe.”

Draco folded the paper and pocketed it. “Just until we get back,” he said at his father’s raised eyebrow. He pulled out the Portkeys and set them both on the edge of the desk. “The keyword to activate them is . . .” he paused, “. . . Chocolate Cream.”

Lucius narrowed his eyes as he picked up one of the silver coins. “Dumbledore’s idea, no doubt,” he said scornfully.

“No,” said Draco, flatly. “Mine.” He picked up the other Portkey, turning it over in his hand. He studied it as if thinking hard about something. Then he looked up at his father, his face serious, concerned. “I’ve just thought of something, Father,” he said. “Perhaps I should take the return Portkey with me now . . . as a precaution. If something has gone wrong, if Potter isn’t alone, or he didn’t fly to the hub, I can come back to warn you and stop you from coming. You should not be seen there if we have to postpone the plan.” He paused briefly. “Besides, even if everything does go exactly as we planned, you will have your hands full with Potter,” he added. “It will be easier if I take care of making sure we get back here.”

Lucius hesitated a moment. “Very well,” he said. “I agree.” He took the small black key from his pocket and handed it over to Draco. “The word to activate it is my father’s middle name.”

Draco nodded, tucking it securely into his own pocket. That was it, then. Everything he’d intended to do was done. There was nothing left now but to let the course of what he’d set in motion carry him to the end. He stood up, glancing at the large clock on the mantle. It was ten to three.

“I think I should go ahead now,” said Draco. “That will give me a few minutes to be sure everything is secure. Potter should be there at three. If I haven’t come back by five after, come ahead.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing the expression on Potter’s face,” said Lucius, a cold calculating look in his eyes, “when he finds out you’ve betrayed him.”

Draco smiled inwardly at that. His father had done several things over the last two days that he had not expected, but this he _had_ expected, had counted on it, even. “Yes,” he said softly. He was looking forward to something very much like that himself.

Lucius stood up.

Draco held out his hand, his fist closed tightly around the Portkey. So it was down to this, he thought with a sudden lump in his throat. He would have only a few minutes to be with Harry, before Harry found out what he’d done, before he had to watch the betrayal and hurt appear in Harry’s eyes, before there was no more future for them at all anymore and Harry was left with a love turned to ashes.

 _Love_ , he thought disconsolately, as he whispered the keyword and felt that dizzying yank grab him behind the navel. Love, exquisitely beautiful as it had been, could also be a cruel and bitter thing.


	16. Part III — Endgame — Chapter 16

  


_Nothing is so good it lasts eternally_  
_Perfect situations must go wrong_  
_But this has never yet prevented me_  
_Wanting far too much for far too long_

_Looking back I could have played it differently_  
_Won a few more moments who can tell_  
_But it took time to understand the man_  
_Now at least I know I know him well_

_Wasn’t it good?_  
_Wasn’t he fine?_  
_Isn’t it madness_  
_He can’t be mine?_

_No one in your life is with you constantly_  
_No one is completely on your side_  
_And though I move my world to be with him_  
_Still the gap between us is too wide_

_Didn’t I know_  
_How it would go?_  
_If I knew from the start_  
_Why am I falling apart?_

Lyrics from “Song title” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Skimming over the tops of the snow-covered trees, flying fast and parallel with the road to Hogsmeade, Harry was crouched low over his Firebolt, grinning in anticipation of seeing Draco again. The rush of cold air in his face, crisp with the frosty scent of snow, was exhilarating and the slanting afternoon sun sparked tiny brilliant prisms of light from the white surfaces blurring beneath him as he kept watch for the Portkey hub. From the air he thought he should be able to spot the hub easily as a large clearing in the forest and not have to bother looking for that old signpost Draco had uncovered.

_I must be nearly there . . ._

Almost as soon as he thought it, he overshot a round open space in the trees below and drew a sharp, excited breath. He grinned wider, for he’d caught a glimpse of a slim blond figure in a black cloak stepping from the trees on the far side, walking toward the center of the circle.

_Draco!_

Harry quickly banked his Firebolt in a tight arc, slowing and angling down to land at one edge of the clearing. In his haste, he jumped from his broom without even touching down.

With a swift glance over his shoulder as he hurriedly leaned the two brooms against a tree, he saw Draco striding toward him across the unbroken snow, and when he turned around a moment later, Draco was right there. Without a word being spoken, Harry was enveloped in a fierce hug. He melted into the embrace with a sigh. God, it felt so good to hold Draco again – the ache of separation he’d carried inside him for the last two long, distressing days evaporated instantly as Draco’s body pressed eagerly against his own.

“I was so worried,” whispered Harry, closing his eyes and turning his face to nuzzle Draco’s ear. “I’m so glad you’re back. Everything will be okay now.”

“Shhh,” whispered Draco and moved his head to kiss Harry.

With a thrill of elation, Harry felt the magic of the _Ti’kira_ binding flare between them as Draco’s mouth closed over his. A vivid explosion of warmth flooded through him, a warmth that radiated out from his heart, reassuring and uplifting him, coalescing into that deep, comforting sense of belonging he always felt with Draco.

He was aware, too, as he held Draco in his arms, of another binding that joined them; the powerful resonance and echo stirring at the very center of his own magic confirmed that their magical auras were joined. But he didn’t wonder about that, caught up as he was in kissing Draco and simply being awed anew by the intensity of these connections he felt with the other boy. It still amazed him how perfectly they seemed to fit together, and how Draco’s very presence, his touch, filled Harry with strength and calm and a sense of wholeness and completion.

Another thrill, purely physical, surged through Harry as Draco deepened the kiss. _God, I missed you_ , thought Harry, tightening his arms around Draco. His original intention to invite Draco to go flying was quickly shifting into a fervent desire to get Draco back to Hogwarts as soon as possible and into bed. Cloak and sweater and gloves, armor willingly donned against the cold, now became clumsy, unwanted obstructions between Harry’s hands and his need to touch Draco’s bare skin.

Harry slowly, gently, ended the kiss. He wanted to look at Draco’s face, to see the smile he loved and the warmth kindling in the light gray eyes.

Draco released Harry from the kiss reluctantly and leaned his forehead against Harry’s, holding on tightly. He seemed desperately unwilling to let go.

“Come on,” said Harry, smiling, pulling back a little more. “I brought your broom –” he started, meaning to ask Draco to fly with him, though now only as far as the window to Draco’s room. Then Harry saw Draco’s face clearly for the first time and the rest of his teasing words died unspoken.

Draco wasn’t smiling. His mouth was tightly drawn and his eyes remained closed as if he couldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, almost as if he was close to tears. He seemed to be struggling to say something difficult.

“Draco? What . . . ?”

After a few seconds of tense silence, Draco took a deep breath and looked up, and Harry’s heart faltered a beat. The gray eyes were awash with sadness and regret.

“I’m so sorry, love,” said Draco, his voice hushed, nearly breaking. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Sorry?” repeated Harry, completely perplexed by Draco’s words and his demeanor, so utterly different than what he’d expected.

Draco let go of him without answering, stepping back slightly to take something from a pocket in his cloak. “Keep this safe,” he said solemnly, handing Harry a much-folded piece of parchment.

“What is it?” asked Harry, both confused and worried by Draco’s strange behavior.

“Just keep it for now,” Draco repeated. “You can read it later.”

Harry hesitated for a second, bewildered, before tucking the paper down into the pocket of his jeans.

Draco smiled at him then, a tight, sad smile very like the one he’d given Harry as he’d left his room on his way home for Christmas, but before Harry could ask anything more, Draco’s hands slid around Harry’s waist under his cloak. He pulled Harry back into his arms and kissed him again as if he never wanted to stop.

Surrendering to this kiss, Harry almost forgot his questions and his confusion, until the rustle of a cloak followed by a short, derisive laugh made him break abruptly away. Draco slipped away from him and took a step back.

Over Draco’s shoulder, Harry saw with a shock that Lucius Malfoy was standing in the center of the clearing, his wand aimed directly at them. _Oh God_ , he thought in alarm, _Snape was right – I never should have let Draco go home!_

He clutched at Draco, meaning to pull him out of the line of fire, but Draco shrugged him off, avoiding his grasp. Then Harry saw, with an even greater shock, that Draco held Harry’s wand, had stolen it from Harry’s back pocket as they’d embraced.

An icy chill that had nothing to do with the cold winter breeze that ruffled his hair shivered up between Harry’s shoulder blades. Betrayal and anger and disbelief flooded his face, and he looked up frantically at Draco for an explanation. But Draco was turning away toward his father. Harry caught only a glimpse of Draco’s face – a face that was undeniably cool and unsurprised as Draco acknowledged his father’s presence with a silent nod. Taken aback, and seized with a sense of unreality, of the impossibility of what he was seeing, Harry felt sick with horror.

“Well, well, Potter,” said Lucius. His voice was silky and pitiless, and he smiled with obvious satisfaction at Harry’s stricken expression. “It seems you’ve gotten involved in a rather . . . treacherous . . . little affair.” He gave another short, contemptuous laugh, then his voice grew stern. “Step aside, Draco,” he said. “We need to do this fast and get out of here.”

“No,” said Draco, still standing resolutely between his father and Harry. “There’s something I have to finish with him first. It will only take a moment.” He stood unmoving, uncompromising, meeting his father’s angry glare willfully, blocking Harry until Lucius, tight-lipped, nodded.

“King to E1,” said Draco, turning back to face Harry.

Harry stared at Draco, incredulous, his mind racing to make sense of what was happening. It was obvious that Draco had known his father was coming. He had not reacted with any surprise at all. And he had kept Harry here. They had had more than enough time to jump on their brooms and fly safely away, yet Draco had deliberately delayed their leaving with his kisses – and had taken Harry’s wand. Harry just couldn’t believe what that implied. He _had_ to believe that Draco was being forced – somehow Lucius had discovered their plan to meet and had coerced Draco into this while he was home. That he could understand, but now . . . 

Now Draco was standing here in the midst of this threatening situation, facing him seriously and . . . making a chess move? What the bloody hell was he thinking? And _this_ move! This was not Draco almost making a bad move by mistake – this was intentional. Draco was knowingly moving into the one situation that would lose him the game, that same fatal position they had already discussed the night of the Yule Ball.

Then Draco’s words from that night came back to Harry in a heart-stopping rush – _“It would have been practically . . . suicide,”_ – and suddenly Harry forgot all about Lucius as realization struck. Draco had made sure he’d seen this move that night. It had _not_ been a mistake then either. Was it another hint – like the ones Draco had given him when he’d pretended the break-up? But, oh God, what the bloody hell did it mean!?

_Practically suicide . . . !_

Panic rose up inside Harry in a churning tide of emotion and he knew, as the ground seemed to shift and slide away beneath his feet, that Draco had intended him to know this. “You can’t move there,” Harry whispered, his voice failing in the fear that gripped him now. “You said you had a strategy for winning. What about that?” he asked desperately. “You said it was working perfectly . . .”

Draco reached out and touched Harry’s face with his fingertips, tenderness unmistakable in his touch. “And it did,” he said softly as his hand dropped and he stepped back. “This _was_ my strategy, Harry. It was _you_ that I wanted to win.” He turned his head and glanced at his father, gauging the man’s rising impatience, then turned back to Harry. “It’s your move,” he said.

“I don’t want to win,” said Harry, struggling to think of some way to stall, to stop what was happening. “Not like _this_ . . .”

“It’s over,” said Draco with stark finality, making a small helpless gesture with his hand to indicate his father’s wand aimed at them.

The words and gesture cut Harry to the quick. _Over? All that they had shared? All his hopes for the future? Over? Meaningless?_

With that sickening feeling of horror crouching, dark and heavy, in the pit of his stomach, Harry raised his hand against Draco. Even without his wand, he was not going to be taken like an unresisting, defenseless Pawn, as part of a chess game. He’d only done wandless magic accidentally, but he knew now that it was possible, and he would certainly try to fight that way before letting Lucius Malfoy capture him.

But with a slight shake of his head like a subtle warning, Draco spoke again, his voice gentled, almost pleading. “I just want to hear you say it, Harry. Please.” He paused, his eyes holding Harry’s intensely. “It’s your move.”

Searching the gray eyes that held an ocean of anguish and apology, Harry sought an explanation, any clue to tell him what Draco was doing. The eye contact seemed to last an eternity and Harry felt he might drown in the sadness of those eyes. And once again, though Draco’s actions and words appeared incriminating and wrong, Harry still saw the boy he loved, the boy he trusted in those eyes.

Draco was begging Harry to trust him. Harry could sense it, as sure and steady as the beating of his own heart. He could still feel, even now, in this fragile, precarious moment, the intimate bonding of the _Ti’kira_ magic between them and the mysterious, powerful joining of their magical auras. He remembered the passion they had shared, remembered how he’d believed, as he lay in Draco’s arms that last night together, that he could trust Draco with his life.

And Harry knew that was what Draco was asking him to do. It was what he _had_ to do. For what was trust, he understood suddenly, if one cast it aside at the first test . . . however great a challenge that might be? Harry chose to believe. With a lump rising in his throat and the feeling that his knees might give out beneath him at any moment, he dropped his hand.

“Knight to C2,” said Harry very quietly, making the move that would take Draco’s Pawn and reveal his own Queen to win the game. He swallowed against the painful constriction in his throat. His eyes never left Draco’s. “Checkmate,” he said finally, barely a whisper.

Draco nodded. “Good game, Harry,” he said evenly, his voice betraying none of the emotion in his eyes. He turned his back on Harry and walked to where his father stood waiting, and stopped, facing Lucius. “I did what you forced me to do, Father,” he declared so that his words carried clearly across the snow-covered circle, “and got Potter here. If you want him, take him . . . but I won’t help you do it.”

“Just get out of the way,” said Lucius, seething with annoyance, “and get that Portkey ready.”

As Draco walked away to stand several paces behind his father, Harry found himself face to face with Lucius Malfoy. Lucius’s wand was pointed straight at his chest.

“ _Imperio_ ,” said Lucius, not wasting another second.

Harry didn’t even have time to blink before he felt the beginning sensations of the forbidden curse, that very familiar floating, happy, empty and carefree feeling, brush across his mind. He knew this spell intimately, had learned to throw it off completely back in his fourth year DADA class, and steeled himself to fight it now . . . but it seemed to simply wash over him and fade away. He heard Lucius’s mental command: _Come here . . . come with me . . ._ as a faint ineffectual whisper in his mind, and then the spell dissipated completely.

Harry gazed blankly at Lucius for a second, momentarily baffled by the unexpected failure of the curse, then he crossed his arms over his chest and met Lucius’s angry glare with challenge in his green eyes. “It didn’t work,” he said bluntly.

Lucius stared at him, scowling. “ _Imperio!_ ” he repeated forcefully, and his wand trembled in his hand from the effort.

_Come with me NOW!_

Again Harry heard the words, but as if from a great distance, and felt only the slightest touch of the spell in his mind before it melted away.

“Sorry, no,” said Harry, his confidence growing. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Why isn’t it working?” Lucius growled at Draco without turning around, without taking his wand off Harry. “It’s impossible. He should have no resistance at all. I spelled that ring myself, before you gave it to him.”

 _My ring? Spelled?!_ Harry looked to Draco, alarm and doubt flooding through him at this startling new revelation. This wasn’t something that had happened when Draco went home! Draco had given him the ring before he left! And he remembered Draco’s urgent words quite clearly – _“Promise me you won’t ever take this ring off again. Not for any reason . . . no matter what happens.”_ Had Draco been planning this with his father all along?!

But Lucius was turning to Draco now, too, the first hint of suspicion showing on his face. “What did you do?” he hissed.

Harry saw the triumph shining in Draco’s eyes, and with a sudden thrill, realized that the look wasn’t directed at him, but rather at Lucius.

“I had Dumbledore counter-spell it,” said Draco with a hint of pride in his voice, “and _I_ added an advanced Hex-Off spell. I never had any intention of letting you take him.”

Lucius stared at Draco, speechless for a half-second, his face turning livid with rage. “You little fool,” he said in a low, measured, infuriated voice.

Draco’s chin came up, defiance danced in his eyes. “Rather a fool for love than the heartless puppet of a madman that you’ve become,” he stated boldly, bitter scorn laced distinctly in the tone of his words.

“Love!” Lucius nearly spat the word. He eyed Draco with contempt, one corner of his mouth curling upwards in disgust. “How pathetic.”

Harry thought he should run while Lucius was distracted, but he couldn’t leave Draco. Lucius was turning his wand on Draco now, and Harry was frozen in place, not able to tear his eyes from the drama playing out in front of him.

“I had such high hopes for you, Draco,” said Lucius icily. “We should have stood side by side, raised to power together with the Dark Lord.” He paused, studying Draco with a calculating gaze. “It’s not too late, son,” he said, and his voice now seemed warmer, conciliatory, yet Harry still heard the callous manipulation in his tone. “No one needs to know about this little . . . lapse in judgment, but us. Put this childish idea aside and do what is required of you.”

“I have my own ideas about what is required of me,” said Draco firmly.

Lucius glared at him, discarding all pretense of patience. “You took the vows!” he nearly shouted, and his voice shook with anger. “The Dark Lord will never let you go now.” He raised his wand higher, pointing it straight at Draco’s chest. “Don’t you understand that as his servant, _I_ can’t let you go! Don’t destroy your future, boy!”

“I never _had_ a future,” retorted Draco, his voice rough with emotion. “Not of my own. You intended to control me in every way, torturing me with the Cruciatus Curse to ensure my obedience, forcing me to be a Death Eater, ordering me now under threat of my life to betray the only person I have ever loved. You’ve _already_ destroyed my future!”

“So you decided to defy me?” snarled Lucius, a note of incredulous disbelief in his voice. “You!? You’re just a child! Did you actually think you could stop me from taking Potter?”

“No,” said Draco coldly, quietly, and triumph sparked again in his eyes. “ _I_ didn’t plan to stop you at all.”

At that moment, six men who had been stationed in a ring around the edges of the Portkey hub ended the Disillusionment Charms that had kept them concealed. They immediately stepped forward, their wands drawn and aimed at Lucius Malfoy. Anti-Disapparation Cuffs appeared in the same instant on Lucius’s wrists.

Harry almost gasped out loud with surprise and relief. He recognized Arthur Weasley and Mad-Eye Moody standing together opposite him and guessed that the other men were Aurors. One of them came forward to take a stand beside Harry, as if to guard him.

Draco silently held up the only other means of escape, the little black key that Lucius had made into the Portkey back to Malfoy Manor, which Draco had artfully removed from his father’s possession.

“Lucius Malfoy,” said Moody in a loud, severe and formal tone. “You are under arrest. You’ve confessed to being a Death Eater and cast an Unforgivable Curse before all these witnesses. We’ve seen more than enough here to send you to Azkaban for the rest of your life.”

Lucius completely ignored him. “You betrayed _me_?” he hissed at Draco. “ _This_ was your plan!?”

“You demanded a plan,” said Draco, an edge of insolence in his otherwise calm voice, “that would prove to you where my loyalties lie. I did _exactly_ what you asked.”

“You traitorous whelp! Your loyalty _should_ have been to _me_!”

“That’s enough, Lucius,” said Dumbledore’s stern voice from behind Harry as the old wizard’s firm hands settled on Harry’s shoulders. “Lower your wand and surrender.”

At the sound of Dumbledore’s voice, Draco turned his head and looked for Harry, meeting Harry’s eyes with his own.

Harry barely heard Dumbledore’s words. All of his attention was focused on Draco. Standing across the clearing, in a patch of late afternoon sunlight that slanted down, pink and honey-gold, through the snow-covered trees, Draco seemed to shine. Harry’s heart filled with sudden elation and he smiled. He felt the deep magical ties that bound them together, strong and solid and secure, and when Draco smiled back, a shared emotion of exultation surged between them.

Lucius didn’t even acknowledge Dumbledore with a glance, but let his arm fall to his side while he continued to glare furiously at his son.

Dumbledore motioned to one of the Aurors to take away Lucius’s wand.

For Harry, from that point on, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Just as the Auror took the first step forward, Lucius’s arm snapped back up, his wand aimed directly at Draco’s heart. Harry saw Draco’s chin come up, as if Draco had expected this and accepted it, surrendering to its inevitability without even trying to defend himself.

Draco’s eyes never left Harry’s. The mist-gray eyes were filled with resolve and pride and love . . . and, as his father’s wand came up, with profound apology.

And all at once, Harry _knew_. Everything crashed together, all the puzzling pieces fit suddenly into a horrible, insane sense and Harry screamed.

“ _Draco! NO!_ ”

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ” bellowed Lucius.

“ _Stupefy!_ ” yelled the Aurors from all sides.

A stream of bright green light shot from Lucius’s wand a split second before the crisscrossing barrage of fiery red light from the Aurors’ Stunning Spells hit him.

Green light sprayed violently from the ring on Harry’s hand and Harry sank to his knees, held upright only by Dumbledore’s hands on his shoulders. His ears were filled with a dreadful rushing noise. His heart and breath stopped. The world went black . . .

There was a second, then, of profound silence, marred only by the terrible hushed sound of two bodies falling into the snow.

Immersed in that blackness, in a moment in which time seemed to stop along with his heart, Harry felt all the bindings that connected him to Draco come undone. Bonds that were so strong and vital just a few seconds ago frayed and ripped, and Harry felt a delicate part of himself, yet not himself, split and tear away. Something very intimate and precious, as precious to him as his own life, was slipping away from him, like a long exhaled breath, like a last lingering wishful sigh, to be lost beyond his reach forever.

“No,” Harry whispered, ragged breath coming back to him, heartbeat skipping, then pounding. _No!_ With all his strength, in the pulse of that first returning heartbeat, he pulled every bit of healing magic he could summon from the innermost depths of himself to hold on to that last precious unraveling thread.

Harry was only vaguely aware of the sudden flurry that surrounded him, of the Aurors rushing in to secure Lucius who lay Stunned in the center of the circle, of hands trying to help him up, of a voice speaking his name. Staggering to his feet, he wrenched away from those hands that now tried to hold him back and ran, stumbling with despair, across the clearing to find Draco.

Harry found him lying alone, far beyond the tumult of the Aurors encircling Lucius, as if the force of the Killing Curse had thrown him back away from it all. Harry stood for a moment, stunned, numb with disbelief, and stared down at the unmoving body at his feet.

Draco lay on his back in the snow, his hair spread out like pale rays of moonlight on the smooth icy white of the snow, his face peaceful. It was almost as if he slept with his head on the white of his pillow, safe in his bed at Hogwarts. One arm was outstretched, the lifeless hand open, empty. Harry’s wand lay a few inches away.

Harry choked back the sob of grief that rose in his throat. No one had rushed to Draco’s side, no one had stood beside _him_ to protect him. It wasn’t right. Draco shouldn’t have been alone . . .

Tears filled his eyes and spilled, running unchecked down his face, as Harry knelt and gently, carefully, gathered the limp form into his arms. Tears fragmented his vision, splintering the world beyond sense into a thousand sharp shards, each holding a different broken image of his hopes, his dreams – a future shattered like glass. He closed his eyes and cradled Draco to his chest, burying his face in the soft, soft hair that was now cold and damp from the snow.

Retreating into himself, Harry turned inward, searching for solace in the center of his own magic, searching, too, for the fleeting bond he had sensed and tried to catch hold of so frantically in that moment of blackness. Had he let it slip away in his panic, was it lost forever after all?

Desperately he searched for it . . . and finally, deep in the stillness between the thunderous beats of his own heart, he found it. Fragile and weak, it was nothing more than a faint flutter, but it was there – the heartbeat that was so close to his own as to be barely distinguishable, but was not his own.

Slow footsteps, hesitant and regretful, came to a stop beside him. Someone bent and picked up Harry’s wand from the snow.

“Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, a world of sorrow in his voice. He put his hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry, come away. There’s nothing you can do.”

“No,” gasped Harry, talking with effort, not wanting to take any of his concentration from that faint heartbeat. He pulled Draco closer as if afraid that letting go would sever the tenuous connection he clung to between them. He looked up at Dumbledore, his tearful eyes full of shock and anguish, but also determination.

“He’s not dead,” he whispered.


	17. Part III — Endgame — Chapter 17

  


_This is an all too familiar scene_   
_Hopeless reflections of what might have been_   
_From all sides the incessant and burning question:_

_“Bearing in mind your predicament now –_   
_– what you did then –_   
_– we’re just dying to know would you do it all again?”_

_But they know full well_   
_It’s not hard to tell_   
_Though my heart is breaking_   
_I’d give the world for that moment with you_   
_When we thought we knew_   
_That our love would last_   
_But the moment passed_   
_With no warning, far too fast_

Lyrics from “You and I” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Beyond the pain, there was green all around him, vivid emerald and jade and viridian, a dizzying swirl of color that gradually shaped and settled into leaves and vines, and towering, overarching walls of forest. Vines pinioned his legs where he knelt, vines encircled his hands and wrists, holding him tightly bound, tethered to the forest floor, immobile.

Raindrops, warm and heavy, dripped from leaf-tips, trickled over his shoulders and down his bare chest to mingle with the blood that ran in dark rivulets from the deep wound in his chest. He turned his face up and closed his eyes, letting the droplets roll down his face like tears.

He remembered this place . . . remembered the fear . . . remembered the inescapable, ruthless lancing of his heart with an ivory horn that burned like fire and was as cold as ice, and he knew again the agony of that cruel piercing.

The pain was everything now. Radiating out from the wound in his chest, it seared his throat, ran in excruciating waves along his spine and trembled with a pulsing ache behind his eyes and under his fingernails. Intense and brutal, it consumed him.

Hushed, urgent voices whispered all around him, but were far outside his understanding, fading away into some remote distance.

Except for one.

_Why should you live?_ asked the memory of a soft, insistent voice in his mind and the weeping forest seemed to echo . . . _Live . . ._

But the question had no answer, no meaning for him now . . . nothing mattered anymore. Pain possessed him, filled him, tore at him with no mercy. He could no longer fight and yet was held captive beyond endurance.

Let me go . . .” he whispered, a dry sound, bare as bone. “Let me go . . .”

* * * * * 

Harry lay on a bed in the hospital wing, dry-eyed and spent, staring at the ceiling, listening intently and clinging desperately to his awareness of that one fragile connection he held on to – for as long as he held it, he could still hope. The ordeal of getting Draco back to Hogwarts had exhausted him, both emotionally and physically. He felt weak and shattered, hollow inside – had felt so, if he thought about it, since Lucius had cast the Killing Curse.

Madam Pomfrey, in her rush to treat Draco, had taken only a glance at Harry’s shocked, ashen face, but had thrust a chocolate bar into his hands and ordered him to lie down. He’d eaten half of the chocolate in a mechanical daze and then had dropped wearily onto the bed opposite Draco’s. Time had passed agonizingly slowly. All he could do was lie there and wait, stunned and anxious, as from behind the curtained screens drawn tightly around Draco’s bed, he could hear Madam Pomfrey talking in low, distressed whispers to Dumbledore.

When a house-elf appeared with a dinner tray, Harry found that he was famished and yet could scarcely bear to eat. Sitting up made him dizzy; the chicken tasted like cardboard, the potatoes like sawdust. He tried to eat anyway and managed to get a little of the food down, along with the rest of the chocolate bar, knowing that he had to keep up his own strength if he was to help Draco. For a short time, he did feel a little stronger, but it wasn’t long before fatigue crept up on him again.

Many burning, unanswered questions raced through his mind while he lay waiting as what seemed like hours passed. Everything at the Portkey hub had happened so fast. In one moment, he and Draco had been united, exulting in certain victory, and in the next instant, everything had been shattered beyond belief. A terrible anger, too, simmered just below the surface of his thoughts. He mourned deeply for the loss of the _Ti’kira_ binding; its absence now felt like a great emptiness inside him that could never be filled again. But he had to try to ignore all of that. Nothing mattered except the tenuous connection that fluttered, frail as a moth wing, within him.

It was all he had left of the vibrant magical connections he’d shared with Draco and every ounce of his energy went into saving this last very precious link he still held. He held it in his mind as if he cupped it tenderly in his hands, gently captured and protected, sustaining it only by the exertion of his own determined will to keep it safe, and the effort exhausted him faster than he could gain his own strength back. He began to fear that he was rapidly becoming too weak to hold on; the same blackness that had enveloped him at the Portkey hub seemed poised to overwhelm him again. If he fainted and involuntarily let that precious link slip away . . .

Fighting panic at the thought, Harry closed his eyes and focused on that fragile connection as intently as he could. He had to stay strong. He would _not_ let go.

Whispering every strengthening spell he knew, Harry battled against his failing energy. From across the room, he heard the murmur of Madam Pomfrey casting spells and the baritone rumble of Dumbledore’s voice joining with hers. It seemed to Harry as if an eternity stretched out during the next few minutes; the strain seemed endless. Madam Pomfrey was speaking louder, urgently, and then Harry heard a terrifying muffled choking sound.

_Oh God . . ._

Struggling to sit up, Harry braced himself against the head of the bed and stared, riveted and tense, across the room at the screens concealing Draco’s bed. The sudden silence was horrible . . . and seemed to go on forever . . . Then, as if with the drawing of a deep breath, there was an easing, and Harry felt the drain on his strength lessen. He closed his eyes, feeling lightheaded and shaken, not knowing what it meant.

Dumbledore stepped out from behind the curtains, and his eyes met Harry’s. The light blue eyes were sad, strained, apologetic.

“I’m very sorry, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly, when he had reached the side of Harry’s bed. “Madam Pomfrey has done everything she can, but . . .”

Harry came to his feet somehow, though his legs felt insubstantial and unsteady beneath him. “Is he – ” He couldn’t say it, and it couldn’t be true. He still felt that faint heartbeat . . .

Dumbledore shook head. “He’s still with us, Harry . . . but only barely. Madam Pomfrey was finally able to get him to swallow a very strong Reviving Potion, and that has stabilized him a little. We can’t know how long it will last, though,” he said grimly. He paused and met Harry’s eyes with sincere regret. “Harry, I’m sorry . . . we were all so focused on keeping _you_ safe. We should have protected him better.”

“Yes,” said Harry tersely. “You should have.” He couldn’t keep the biting, accusatory tone from his voice as the devastating picture of Draco lying alone and abandoned in the snow rose up in his memory. And with that memory came the angry, wrenching questions that had been tearing him up since they’d brought Draco to the hospital wing. He’d tried not to think about the implications of the presence of the Aurors in the clearing, but . . . “You were in on it with him, weren’t you?” he asked in a low, furious voice. “You _knew_ what he was doing! How could you let him risk his life like that?”

“No,” said Dumbledore sadly. “I didn’t know. Draco made sure of that,” he added in a quiet, aggrieved tone. “He sent me an owl with an explanation and an urgent request for help . . . but only at the last minute. I suspected he was in trouble when he brought me that ring you’re wearing before he went home, and luckily, I decided to take some precautions then. I asked some of the Aurors we can trust, who don’t share Fudge’s blindness to Lucius Malfoy’s suspected alliances, to stand guard at the Portkey hub, just in case. When I got Draco’s letter, I immediately alerted Arthur and Alastor Moody, too, but the three of us barely got there in time.”

“You still could have stopped it,” protested Harry. “We had our brooms. We had plenty of time to get away before Lucius Malfoy appeared – if I’d been warned . . .”

“This is war,” said Dumbledore gently but firmly. “Draco told me in his letter that he knew what he was doing and would not be in danger, although he also assured me that he was willing to take whatever risks were involved to stop his father and expose the Death Eaters. His main concern was for you – that we keep you safe.”

Dumbledore paused. “We needed this break, Harry. Desperately. And when Draco told me you had the ring that I myself had counter-spelled and that he had put a very strong advanced Hex Repellant spell on, I knew you would be safe from the Imperius Curse. I felt we should trust Draco and let him prove beyond a doubt which side he was on.

The plan _was_ brilliant in its conception. His father was the key to the rest of the Death Eaters and no one had been able to get near him before. But I’m afraid that in spite of warning you not to underestimate Lucius Malfoy, that is exactly what I did. We should have disarmed him immediately. I just never imagined Lucius would actually attempt to . . . kill . . . his own son.”

“I think Draco knew,” said Harry bitterly, remembering the way Draco had faced his father at the end, chin up, waiting for the curse, unsurprised. “No matter what he told you.”

“I expect he did,” said Dumbledore with a troubled sigh. “And I have no explanation for how he survived that curse . . . except we found he was wearing this.” The headmaster held out his hand toward Harry. On his palm lay a tangled silver chain, a burned, twisted ruin of silver wires and broken crystal and a fractured, blackened stone. “It appears that the curse hit this directly and so perhaps its power was partially deflected, but I don’t see how it could have been enough to save his life.”

Harry groaned and sank down to sit on the bed at the sight of the ruined pendant. “I gave him that,” he said in a barely audible voice. “For Christmas. Just before he left.”

He reached out and carefully took the once beautiful necklace from Dumbledore, held it cradled in his own palm for a long moment, then laid it gently on the table by the bed. It seemed a symbol of everything that had been destroyed that day. “You were right,” he said softly to Dumbledore, “that day in your office – about him being able to hurt me so much more this way than before. He said he loved me and I trusted him . . . and now . . .” 

Harry’s voice broke and he sat in silence for several seconds, staring at the necklace. “He lied and . . . he used me. Now . . . I don’t know what to believe.”

“There is a great deal that he needs to explain,” said Dumbledore, “and it is my deepest wish right now that he will be able to do so. Madam Pomfrey is doing everything she can to keep him with us. But I think you can believe that he did indeed love you very much. He was willing to die to help us win this war . . . and to protect you.”

Harry turned away, anger surfacing again . . . and the threat of tears. He bit his lower lip to stop it trembling and said nothing.

“Since Arthur Weasley was there,” said Dumbledore after a short silence, “I suspect your friends will hear what has happened and want to come back early from their holiday to be with you.”

Harry stared blindly at the floor, struggling to get his emotions under control. “No,” he said finally. “I . . . I don’t want anyone. Not yet.” He looked up and met Dumbledore’s eyes resolutely. “I just want to see Draco now, please.”

Dumbledore studied Harry’s very pale face. Harry looked exhausted and strained, a fact which made Dumbledore recall his previous private suspicions with some concern. He thought Harry should be lying down, but he saw the worry and determination in Harry’s eyes, and nodded. “I’ll tell Madam Pomfrey that you may sit with him for a time so that she can attend to refilling her medicines,” he said, also resolving to tell Madam Pomfrey to keep a close eye on him. “But then you must rest, Harry.”

Harry didn’t argue, though he knew he’d never be able to rest until he was sure Draco was going to be okay. He walked with Dumbledore to Draco’s bed and waited tensely while the headmaster pushed one of the screens aside and spoke to Madam Pomfrey. Harry could see Draco’s clothes lying discarded haphazardly on a chair next to the bed, the black wool cloak, the pretty gray sweater, the toe of one of Draco’s favorite pair of boots showing beneath an edge of the cloak that trailed onto the floor. 

A lump filled Harry’s throat with ache, and a sudden wash of anguish, of desire, and an acute consciousness of the empty space against his chest and his desperate need for Draco to fill that space flooded through him, followed swiftly by a chilling rush of fear that he would never hold Draco again. He closed his eyes for a second and swallowed hard, willing himself to be calm.

Dumbledore stepped back. “I’ll be in my office, Harry,” he said in a low voice. “There are people I must contact who need to know what happened this afternoon. Poppy will let me know if I’m needed,” he added, and with a solemn nod, started toward the door.

Harry didn’t watch him leave, but immediately stepped inside the screens. Madam Pomfrey was bent over the bed, her wand in hand, finishing the chanting of a spell.

“I’ve just put a Summoning Charm on him,” she said wearily, turning to face Harry. “It will alert me instantly if his condition changes.” She took one practiced look at Harry and picked up a cup with a small amount of potion left in it from the bedside table. “This is the Reviving Potion I gave Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “I had to use a Swallowing Spell to get it down him since he’s still unconscious, but even with that, he started choking and I couldn’t get him to drink it all.” She handed the cup to Harry. “I want you to drink the rest, Harry,” she said, studying his face with puzzled concern. “You look almost as pale as he does.”

Harry took the cup and drank it. It tasted vile, but made him feel a little better almost instantly.

Then Madam Pomfrey stepped slightly away from the bed and Harry saw Draco for the first time since he’d been brought to the hospital wing. She started speaking again, giving Harry the details of the spells she had used on Draco and the reason why she’d used them. She was teaching him even now, Harry realized, and then he understood that she didn’t know the real reason why he was there. She had assumed he had stayed to help because he was her student, because he was in training to be a mediwizard himself and this was an emergency. He listened carefully to all of her instructions, but he could not take his eyes from Draco’s face.

There was no color in that face at all except for pale blue smudges under his eyes. Even his lips were colorless, nearly gray. Harry’s heart constricted painfully. All of the anger he had expected to feel when he saw Draco again had evaporated at the sight of Draco’s lifeless face.

“That potion will wear off in a few hours,” continued Madam Pomfrey as she gathered Draco’s clothes from the chair. “I don’t know if he will remain somewhat stable like this when that happens or if he’ll be in crisis again.” She paused and straightened up, her arms full of Draco’s things. “Harry, the truth is, even with everything I did, even with the Reviving Potion, he is still dying. Just much more slowly than before. And I don’t know . . .”

Her voice trailed off and Harry looked at her then. Her face was somber, clouded with uncertainty and grave apprehension.

“I don’t know if there is anything we can do to save him,” she said softly. “I’m afraid all we are doing is prolonging the inevitable. It’s a complete mystery that he’s alive at all.”

Harry looked away before the crushing blow of her words could show in his eyes. “But . . . we’ll keep trying, won’t we?” he asked, his voice muted with emotion.

“Yes, of course we will. You know I would never give up on him,” she answered reassuringly. “I’m going to go down to the Potions lab now and mix up a large batch of the Reviving Potion to have on hand. It will take a little time but it seems to be what has helped him the most.”

Harry nodded, his gaze fixed again on Draco’s ashen face. “I’ll stay and keep watch,” he said, sitting slowly down in the chair beside the bed. He felt numb all over and didn’t see the questioning and worried look Madam Pomfrey gave him.

“Harry,” she started, her tone gentle but chiding, “you look done in yourself. I think it would be best if you lie down . . .”

She didn’t press the matter when Harry mutely shook his head. He was slumped down in the chair staring intently at Draco Malfoy in a way that completely perplexed her. What had happened out there this afternoon? According to Dumbledore, Harry hadn’t been injured in any way. Then why did he look so drained and pale? 

She wondered if perhaps he was feeling responsible for Malfoy’s injury. That would be like Harry, though Dumbledore, in the little he had explained, had made it clear that Harry had been an unwitting participant in Malfoy’s scheme. Still, that didn’t quite explain Harry’s despondent behavior or why he continued to look ill when there was nothing overtly wrong with him. It was all a great puzzle. She would certainly follow Dumbledore’s suggestion and keep a watchful eye on him as well as Malfoy.

But since he was determined to stay with Malfoy, she thought, at least he could be learning something and being helpful instead of sitting and fretting uselessly. “I’ve been examining Mr. Malfoy with the Aurascope, Harry,” she said, nodding toward the small instrument on the bedside table that resembled a pair of Omnioculars. “If you’re going to sit with him, I’d like you to continue to monitor his condition with it. He has only a small physical wound, but you can see the . . . real damage . . . quite clearly with the Aurascope. I’d appreciate a second opinion once you’ve seen it.”

She paused, not at all sure Harry had been listening, but then he turned to look at her, the first spark of interest in his eyes that she’d seen all afternoon.

“Okay,” he said quietly and she smiled tiredly at him.

Harry waited until Madam Pomfrey had left the hospital wing before he moved. He was finally alone and able to do what he had been desperately wanting and needing to do since the moment he’d given Draco over to the nurse’s care – to touch him again. Kneeling beside the bed, he carefully smoothed a stray lock of Draco’s hair down behind his ear and then took Draco’s left hand in both of his own.

He cradled Draco’s hand gently, and for a moment was captivated as always by its slim beauty, but the sight of the pale graceful fingers that now curled in toward the palm, limp and unmoving, quickly filled him with an almost overwhelming ache of longing. The touch of Draco’s hands was unique and irreplaceable – no one would ever touch him the way Draco had. This touch alone had carried him to places of deep calm and to dizzying heights of pleasure – places where the worries that beset him at all other times could not find him.

He remembered, too, as he lovingly stroked the satiny soft skin of Draco’s inner wrist, how Draco had responded to his own touch – it had been so entrancing, so incredibly moving to watch, and Harry had no words for the profound sense of joy it had given him.

“Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered in a broken voice. “Draco, do you hear? You have to live. You _have_ to . . .”

There was no response. Draco lay as if already dead. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed – the only indication that he still lived – was itself nearly imperceptible. Harry closed his eyes, his head bowed down, intensely bereft, fearing with a sinking, hollow pain of grief and misery in his chest what he wanted so much to deny – that Draco had gone too far away, far beyond the reach of words, beyond the reach of his touch.

Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. _Why did you do this?_ he wanted to cry out. He searched back through his memories of the events at the Portkey hub, hoping to remember something that would help him understand. Flashes of memory came to him, all confused and out of order – Draco lying in the snow, the awful green light of the Killing Curse, the wrenching, unexpected end of the chess game, the sudden appearance of the Aurors, Lucius Malfoy’s livid face and Draco’s terrible, calm surrender.

But nothing really helped. Maybe if he started at the beginning, from the time he met Draco and worked through the sequence of events that way . . .

He remembered first how he’d flown over the Portkey hub and how excited he had been to see Draco again; he remembered how Draco had kissed him so fervently but then had inexplicably apologized. Thinking back on that, Harry understood the apology now and, with an effort, pushed that memory to the back of his mind. If he thought about it now, it would just make him angry and now wasn’t the time. He remembered next that Draco had pushed a piece of paper into his hand – 

_Oh God!_ Harry stood up, shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out Draco’s letter. He’d completely forgotten about it. With shaking hands he unfolded the parchment. It had been folded over and over many times, so it took him a long moment to get it open. Then with both anticipation and apprehension in his heart, he sat down in the chair and read:

  


> _Dearest Harry,_
> 
> _I hope with all my heart as I write this that you will never see it. But if_   
> _you are reading it now, then my worst fears have come true and I am no_   
> _longer with you. I am so sorry, Harry, for so many things._
> 
> _I hope you can forgive me for leaving you. I never meant to hurt you – I_   
> _never thought, when I first made the plan to have my father arrested, that_   
> _you would ever love me back. I honestly didn’t think that you would care_   
> _what happened to me. I only wanted to get you to trust me, to be willing to_   
> _meet me – I thought all you would want from me would be information._
> 
> _But after you kissed me, I wanted you to love me more than anything – and_   
> _I didn’t think how much I might hurt you until you told me about that girl._   
> _By then, I knew you did love me and it was too late._
> 
> _I tried not to think about dying, about never being with you again, but it_   
> _was tearing me up to know that that was what would probably happen and_   
> _that you might hate me when it was over. Harry, please try to understand._   
> _Please don’t hate me for wanting you to love me, for wanting to be with you,_   
> _even when I knew it would end._
> 
> _What I did, I had to do, no matter what the risk to myself. I was the only_   
> _one who could get inside my father’s defenses – he trusted no one, but in his_   
> _arrogance, he never suspected I would actually betray him._
> 
> _So I hope, too, if you are reading this, that you are safe and my father has_   
> _been stopped. If I succeeded in having my father arrested, the Death_   
> _Eaters will be exposed and Voldemort’s support will be greatly weakened._   
> _You won’t have to fight them and my death will have served a purpose._
> 
> _I always knew my death was inevitable – my father would have killed me_   
> _eventually, because I would have denied him the loyalty he demanded and_   
> _refused to help him give you to the Dark Lord. But my worst fear was that_   
> _he would somehow force me to do it anyway. I could not have lived with the_   
> _knowledge that my father had hurt you, or worse, used me to hurt you._
> 
> _But oh God, Harry, tonight he is forcing me to take the vows to become a_   
> _Death Eater and I can’t live with that either. He’ll have to kill me after I_   
> _betray those vows and I don’t intend to prevent it. I can’t, but at least this_   
> _way, I will have ended it on my own terms._
> 
> _You told me that no matter what happened, you wouldn’t regret that we_   
> _made love. I hope that was true, but I also hope that you won’t regret any_   
> _of our time together. My only regret is that it had to end so soon. God,_   
> _Harry, I did so want the life we could have had together._
> 
> _I’m leaving everything in my room at Hogwarts to you, especially the chess_  
>  _set. I want you to keep it, to remember me. Tell Pansy I’m sorry, too. She_  
>  _was on our side in the end._
> 
> _Please remember that I loved you._
> 
> _Yours forever,_
> 
> _Draco_

  


Harry read the letter through, then pulled off his glasses and wiped away the tears that had poured down his face while he read. Closing his eyes to hold back the threat of more tears, he tried to make sense of the myriad emotions he felt. He was deeply angered and hurt by what Draco had done and also touched to the heart in a way that was physically painful, as if his heart might truly break in two.

_How could you think I wouldn’t care what happened to you . . . or that I would hate you?_ he asked Draco silently. _Even if we’d never been friends . . . I would have cared if you died like this, fighting the Death Eaters . . . defending me._

He wanted to both yell at Draco and gather him in his arms and never let go.

It hurt him to know that all the time they had been together, Draco had known he might die. It hurt him bitterly, too, to know that Draco hadn’t trusted him to know what he was planning. In all honesty, Harry admitted to himself, he would never have agreed to go along with it, but still, he felt terrible knowing that Draco had suffered through it all alone. And he was furiously angry that Draco had been so careless with his life. If he’d only asked for help, surely a plan could have been devised that didn’t involve such a foolish, needless risk.

Wiping away the tears that had trickled from beneath his lashes, then putting his glasses back on, Harry read the letter through a second time. He came back to reread the sentence, _“I also hope that you won’t regret any of our time together. My only regret is that it had to end so soon,”_ then sat motionless for a long moment before slowly refolding the letter and tucking it into his shirt pocket. He had known how tentative everything about their future was. But somehow the risk had seemed far away, certainly not _this_ immediate, and he ached for how Draco must have felt to know it was so close.

Harry clearly remembered the words he had spoken the day before Draco left. _“Don’t you know that if anything happened to you now, what I would regret for the rest of my life would be the future we never got to have, all the things we never got to do together?”_

Sitting here now, faced with the very real possibility that Draco might not live through the night, that they might not have any future at all, he found he regretted nothing. He understood completely. If their positions had been reversed, Harry knew he would have done exactly what Draco had done – that he would have wanted every minute they could have together regardless of how or when it would end. Harry knew he would be heartbroken for the future they might never share, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the loss, but he’d also been given a great gift and he knew he would never regret a single minute of it.

He felt stronger for knowing that. Looking over at the still form in the bed before him, love flooded through him, comforting him like the soothing touch of a calming spell, and he took a deep breath. No, even if Draco died, he would have no regrets, and yet . . . Draco was irreplaceable in his life. If Draco died, Harry knew he would never love anyone again – not with his whole self – not ever again. He simply could not let Draco die. Madam Pomfrey’s words came back to him, her promise that she would not give up on Draco, and his determination and resolve set in. There had to be something they could do – something _he_ could do – and he would certainly never give up.

The door to the hospital wing opened and Madam Pomfrey came back in carrying a pitcher full of Reviving Potion and an extra cup that she set down on the table next to Draco’s bed. She studied Harry’s face seriously. “I want you to take a full dose of this potion, Harry,” she said, pouring a cupful. “I’m beginning to be quite worried about you.”

Harry took the cup and sipped at it while Madam Pomfrey poured a second cup to have ready for Draco if it was needed. Even fresh, the potion still tasted dreadful.

“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” she said, “before that last dose of the potion wears off Mr. Malfoy. We may be in for a very difficult struggle when that happens, and I want to be rested. The Summoning Charm will wake me if anything changes,” she assured him.

Her hand fell lightly on Harry’s shoulder. “You should get some sleep too, dear,” she added gently. “I’ll lay out some pajamas for you on the bed across there.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry, though he knew he couldn’t possibly sleep. He didn’t tell her his real fear – that if he slept, Draco would die.

For a few minutes she bustled around and then headed for her office, waving her wand to put out all the lamps except the one next to the outer door. “Drink that, Harry,” she called just before she closed her office door.

He swallowed the potion as quickly as he could, grimacing at the taste. When he set the cup back on the table, he noticed the Aurascope. Madam Pomfrey had asked him to use it to examine Draco and he hadn’t yet, having gotten caught up in reading Draco’s letter and his own troubled thoughts and emotions. But now a fresh surge of energy flooded through him as the potion took effect and he remembered that he was also there as a mediwizard, and that he should be doing everything possible to help Madam Pomfrey find a way to heal Draco.

He stood and picked up the Aurascope. He’d been working with this instrument for two months now, studying the intricate patterns of color in the magical aura, but only in theory combined with magical simulations, not with a real patient. Magical auras, usually invisible to the naked eye, were emanations of magical energy that surrounded the body of a wizard. Because color patterns in an individual wizard’s aura reflected not only their personality and aptitudes, including the power of their magic, but the state of their physical, mental, and emotional health as well, diagnosis of complicated health problems was often facilitated by examining the aura.

But his studies had not prepared Harry for the horror that met his eyes when he looked through the Aurascope at Draco. The shock nearly made him drop the instrument and he stared unnerved at Draco with his own eyes for a long time before he was able to steel himself to look through the scope again. When he finally did, he was no less appalled, but this time he continued to look and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

Draco was covered with lines of green light, the same glowing green light of the Killing Curse. They wrapped around his body and head, covering even his face, and bound him like mesh, like vines, like a smothering, strangling net bent on choking off his magic and squeezing all the life from him. Here and there, a bit of blue-violet showed through, which Harry instinctively recognized as one of the true colors of Draco’s magical aura, but those few spots were muddied and dull instead of vibrant and shining as they should be.

But the most horrible thing of all was the dark, gaping hole blasted in the aura over the center of Draco’s chest. Oozing from this great wound were rivulets of red, not of blood, but of life energy – energy that was slowly and steadily seeping away into the air, taking Draco’s life with it. Harry understood at once why Madam Pomfrey had said Draco was still dying. Draco was steadily slipping away further and further from them every minute.

Harry was about to lower the scope in despair when he noticed something else that came from just to the left of that terrible wound, from over Draco’s heart. It was a thin, translucent, gossamer cord that stretched away from Draco’s body and as Harry looked closer, he saw it pulsing gently like the beating of a heart. A steady stream of golden sparks flowed down it, like little shining beads sliding down a string, but unlike the red energy that was seeping out, this energy was flowing into Draco.

With his breath caught in his throat, Harry followed the cord outward with the Aurascope . . . and almost dropped the instrument a second time. The cord was connected to himself! To just over his own heart! And the golden sparks appeared to coalesce out of his own vibrant blue and green magical aura before being drawn down the cord to Draco.

But that wasn’t all. Because Harry had moved the focus of the instrument away from Draco’s body toward himself, he could clearly see the outer edges of his own magical aura. These edges, which were normally smooth, and refracted light in shimmering multicolored swirls like rainbows on a soap bubble, were now rough and uneven on one side, almost as if a part had been recently torn away.

Harry focused back toward Draco, looking for the edges of Draco’s magical aura beyond his, but saw with alarm, that there was no other edge; there were only tattered remnants, like thin, iridescent wisps of fading light that struggled weakly out from between the strangling lines of green. It looked as if part of Draco’s aura had been nearly ripped in two.

Harry sat down hard in the chair, shocked and thinking furiously. Ripped auras always indicated a potentially fatal injury. But there was no spell that Harry knew of to make repairs to an aura. Auras reflected the energy and health of the wizard. And it wasn’t only Draco’s aura that was ripped, Harry’s had been too.

Looking through the Aurascope again, Harry closely studied the edges of his own magical aura, reaching his hand out toward one of the rough spots. He had seen his hands before through the instrument, but it always startled him slightly to see them glowing blue-green, with shining turquoise fingertips, each surrounded by a halo of white light. This, Madam Pomfrey had told him, marked him as someone with an innate talent for wandless healing, even more than his top score on the healing classification exam. While he watched, he saw, to his great relief, that the rough places were slowly smoothing over, repairing themselves, most likely, he realized, as the Reviving Potion restored his own strength.

He realized something else then, too. Their magical auras had evidently been joined before the attack and must have been ripped apart by the Killing Curse. Thinking back, Harry remembered that he _had_ been aware that their magic was joined for most of the time they’d been at the Portkey hub. And yet, now that he considered it, he didn’t understand how that kind of joining could happen. He had sensed their magical auras merging when they’d been in bed together, but had believed it to be only temporary because of their closeness and the magic he was doing, and even then had wondered at the strange, inexplicable nature of it. But now, evidently their magic was joining regardless of distance or the actual practice of magic.

Suddenly, many things that had been puzzling or unexplained began to make sense – why he’d been able to cast the calming spell on Draco even when they’d been miles apart, why he’d experienced that sensation of ripping and tearing when Draco was hit with the Killing Curse, why he’d felt so drained after the attack . . . and a much more chilling realization – why he’d lost his vision and felt his heart and breathing stop. With an acute sense of renewed horror, Harry realized that he, himself, had possibly also come very close to being killed.

Thinking back to that moment when the Killing Curse had been cast, Harry remembered now that he’d seen a spray of green light shooting away from his hand just before the blackness had overtaken him. He drew in a sharp breath as this memory sent shock waves through him. The curse _had_ hit him too, through his connection with Draco.

He raised his left hand and stared at the ring he was wearing. Draco had said he’d put an advanced Hex Repellant spell on it. That would explain why the Imperius Curse had had so little effect and why . . . Harry’s heart constricted at the thought . . . why Draco had made him promise not to take it off. Harry felt a flash of guilt at this, remembering that he’d doubted Draco’s intentions about that for a moment at the Portkey hub.

But maybe the ring had done more than protect him from the Imperius Curse. Perhaps the power of the Killing Curse wouldn’t have been strong enough to actually kill Harry, coming as it was second-hand through Draco, but perhaps, too, the ring had drawn away just enough of that power to save Harry’s life.

Remembering the sensation he’d had during that moment of blackness, of frantically grasping and holding on to that precious connection he had to Draco as it began to slip away, Harry was filled with wonder and astonishment. Had this connection between them, because Harry lived and was able to use his healing magic in that critical instant, saved Draco’s life? Or was it because they had shared the power of the curse between them that Draco had lived?

It all seemed so complex – probably, they would never know the real answer, but Harry was overcome with gratitude for whatever had happened that had spared Draco’s life. And though Draco had barely survived and it was still uncertain he would recover, at least this had given them some time, and a chance.

He had to let Madam Pomfrey know about this. Perhaps the magical connection between them, if it could be reestablished, could be used somehow to keep Draco from dying. Harry had been planning to tell her about their magical auras joining, and about the sparks he saw when they touched, after the holidays anyway, but now that information seemed vital.

At the thought of the sparks, Harry reached out to touch Draco’s hand. Now that the room lights were so low, he could see the tiny golden sparkles clearly as his fingers brushed Draco’s skin – and he caught his breath in a short surprised gasp. The sparks were smaller and disappeared quickly, but they were definitely very similar to the little golden beads of light that he’d seen flowing from himself into Draco.

That thin cord was somehow important and he didn’t understand what it could be . . . and then, it hit him. A magical binding, heart to heart – it could only be the _Ti’kira_ binding.

But . . . he had believed it was lost. He hadn’t been able to feel it at all since the attack . . .

He closed his eyes, concentrating, trying now to sense that connection between them, a connection he’d been able to feel quite vividly before . . . and still felt nothing. Or . . . no . . . maybe not nothing, but it wasn’t the same. He’d always felt it as an intimate, secret warmth in his heart, an overflowing of love, both from himself to Draco and from Draco to himself, and as a solemn magical vow that joined them together in that love. Now, he felt nothing in return . . . and . . . oh, God . . . of course! The flow of energy he’d seen was only going one way – from himself to Draco – because Draco was unconscious. Harry felt a deep tremor of elation at this. It wasn’t lost after all!

Harry stood, looking down at Draco’s pallid, still face, his heart beating fast and a lump forming again in his throat. This was the connection he’d managed to hold onto. The one that was so precious to him. The night of the dance came back to him in all its lovely moonlit grace: the glow in Draco’s face and eyes, the touch of his hands on Harry’s own, so sure and loving as they wove the patterns of the binding magic together, the delightful revelation of the sparks that had surrounded them in a shower of tiny stars, and afterward, the breathless joy of knowing the depth of his commitment to Draco, of knowing it was returned. This connection, this commitment, meant everything to him, and he would not let it go, not ever.

He pulled off his glasses and bent to press his face side to side with Draco’s in a careful but tender hug. “I won’t let you go,” he whispered in Draco’s ear. “I promise you that. Even if you . . .” He had to stop and take a breath before he could say it, and a tear slipped down and wet Draco’s cheek. “Even if you die, Draco, even then,” he went on, “I will not let go. I promised you . . . forever.”

He brushed his lips against the side of Draco’s face in the lightest of kisses, then raised up enough to look down at Draco, and another tear fell like a warm raindrop on Draco’s face. “I will keep that promise,” whispered Harry.

He stood back up, his fingers lightly brushing his tears from Draco’s face, knowing that though he meant that promise, he was going to do everything possible to help Madam Pomfrey and make sure he could keep that promise with Draco living.

To do that, he acknowledged now, to be ready for the time, probably much too soon, when the Reviving Potion would wear off Draco and they might have to fight again for his life, he did need to rest.

In one sense, he felt much better than when he’d first come to sit with Draco. The Reviving Potion had helped him a great deal and he no longer felt ill and drained. He was sure, by his inner feelings, that the damage to his magical aura had healed, and his magical strength was quickly recovering. Still, the emotional and physical strain of the day had worn him out. He wouldn’t be able to sleep – he was too keyed up and worried for that, but he knew he should follow Madam Pomfrey’s example and rest now while he could.

He left his glasses on Draco’s bedside table – he didn’t need them to cross the darkened room and change into the pajamas Madam Pomfrey had laid out for him. He didn’t need them to climb into the bed across from Draco and lie with his eyes closed and his arms folded over his chest, thinking. He’d known he wouldn’t sleep, but he found he couldn’t really rest either. His own breathing and heartbeat sounded far too loud in his ears as he strained to listen for any sound, for any small warning that might tell him that Draco’s condition was changing. The memories of the events at the Portkey hub flashed and replayed disturbingly behind his closed eyelids.

But most of all, he felt alone. And worse, Draco was alone. The fear of being alone was something they had shared and understood in each other, and the memory of Draco, alone and deserted, abandoned to die in the snow at the Portkey hub hurt him deeply, would not let him rest.

What if Draco died now, without any warning? Harry had seen that life-energy seeping out – what if Draco simply slipped farther and farther away from them until he silently slipped completely out of life entirely? The thought was more than Harry could bear. He could not let Draco die alone. And he could not let Draco die and never have the chance to hold him in his arms again. The consideration of what Madam Pomfrey might think of that crossed his mind with no more substance than a flitting shadow, and he got up.

The floor was chilly on his bare feet as he tiptoed back across the room to Draco’s bed and pulled the screen closed behind him. Skirting around the edge of the bed at the foot, Harry got in under the blankets on the far side to lie next to Draco. Very carefully, very slowly, he eased one arm under Draco’s shoulders and shifted himself so that he was lying on his side with his arms around Draco. Gradually, he let the tension out of his body, let his head rest more comfortably on the pillow, closed his eyes, and released the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

For the first time Harry could remember, Draco felt cold in his arms. The boy whose hands and feet and touch and kisses had always been so warm on Harry’s skin, now needed Harry’s warmth, and Harry was glad to give it. Remembering, with a pang of longing, the first night they’d slept together and how Draco had let Harry warm his cold feet on him, Harry did the same, pressing his feet against Draco’s, hoping that the warmth he had to offer was enough. He shifted slightly closer, gathering Draco as gently as possible to him, to hold him, perhaps for the last time, and tried to relax.

It was hard not to ache at the absence of arms that didn’t come around him in return, hard not to desperately miss the way Draco had responded to him with kisses and teasing smiles. Harry’s heart was still beating fast and he concentrated on slowing that, and on steadying his breathing for a moment, to try to calm himself. He focused his awareness on that other heartbeat too, assuring himself that he still felt it, pulsing so close, like a faint, frail echo of his own heartbeat.

With his focus on his heartbeat and his breathing, it was easy and natural for him to fall into the centering ritual for healing magic which he had practiced so many times that it, by itself, had become a source of solace and comfort. It was very settling to let his awareness rest within that calm center of himself and allow the heightened sensibilities he experienced to take his mind off troubling thoughts.

Lying very still, Harry first became aware of how quiet the room was. He could hear only the far-away, intermittent murmur of the wind outside the window at the end of the room, and the faint, barely audible sound of Draco’s soft breathing. The silence seemed to envelop him with Draco, wrapping them together as if in a protective cocoon. His awareness altered to include the unseen energies vibrating around him – the potent, contained energy of the Reviving Potion in the pitcher on the table and the subtle presence of magical wards Madam Pomfrey had set for protection around the room, including the Summoning Charm she had cast on Draco.

Letting the ritual take him deeper, Harry turned his awareness inward to the very center of his magic and felt its power gently vibrating within him, pulsing just below his heart, opening to the mental touch of his awareness. He released this power and felt the magic stream throughout his body, to the top of his head and out to his hands, and to his surprise, all the way down to his feet.

This made him feel strong and whole again, and yet . . . he found himself, for a half-second, waiting expectantly for the answering response of Draco’s magic, a response he’d become so used to that it seemed an integral part of his own magic now. He held his breath almost, wanting so much to hear the low, musical hum that always signaled the joining of their magic, to feel the intimate way they seemed to melt together into one dual self. But there was no response and Harry felt its absence keenly.

With an upwelling of grief, Harry realized what he had unconsciously done, that he was poised on the brink of doing healing magic, but there was nothing he could do. He had learned so many healing spells, some of them quite complicated, but all of them addressed very specific injuries or illnesses. There was nothing he could think of that would even begin to fit Draco’s case . . . and besides, Madam Pomfrey had used every spell she could think of. She had told him all she had tried, and nothing had worked.

He thought then of the calming spell he had done for Draco, which Draco had loved so much, and wondered if that could help Draco at all. Draco might appear to be unconscious and unresponsive, and yet he still might be aware on some level and be in pain or scared. If that spell could reach him, Harry thought, it might help ease him.

Then Harry remembered the flood of love that had come back to him from Draco each time he had done the calming spell, and Harry suddenly knew that even if there was nothing he could do to heal Draco, he could do that. The _Ti’kira_ binding was still intact between them, at least one way, and if there _was_ any part of Draco that was conscious, Harry wanted Draco to know that he was not alone, that he was loved. Harry could at least try to give him that.

Slipping his hand gently under Draco’s pajama top, Harry let his hand rest over Draco’s heart, his forearm lying lightly, warm on Draco’s bare chest and stomach. With his body pressed against Draco’s side all down the length of him, he held Draco’s feet between his own feet, buried his face against the side of Draco’s face, and whispering the words of the calming spell, let the healing magic stream out of him into Draco. Then, searching within himself, he found the _Ti’kira_ binding and visualized all the love he felt for Draco pouring down that thin gossamer cord between them like a river of golden sparks.

“Draco,” he said in a hushed, low voice, hugging Draco as tightly as he dared, “you made me promise that whatever happened, I would remember that you love me. Please . . . hear me now. You’re not alone. Whatever you did, whatever happens . . . I’ll still love you.” He paused to take a ragged breath. “I’ll always love you,” he whispered, sending this thought, this emotion, as hard as he could, willing Draco to hear him . . . willing Draco to feel his love and the calm peacefulness of the spell.

Harry filled his mind with the memory of their shared loving, with the memory of the deep, still, unfathomable peace that had joined them and resonated in waves between them when he’d cast the spell before . . . and something changed. In Harry’s state of increased sensitivity, his awareness included all the subtle nuances of energy around him and he felt now the barest touch of something against the fringes of his magical aura. His heart leapt with elation when he recognized that touch as the first feather-light brush of Draco’s magic responding to his own.

_Oh God._ Had the calming spell actually reached him? Harry almost wanted to sob with relief.

If that wandless magic had reached Draco when nothing else had, maybe . . . maybe there _was_ something else Harry could do! Always before, he had used a spell to direct the magic – into healing specific things – and there was no spell he knew that would heal Draco now . . . but suddenly Harry remembered what had happened with the snowball. Draco had pointed out that he’d transfigured it without a spell, with just a thought. Could he do that now? Could he send the healing magic into Draco without the direction of a spell, with only a thought or a wish to guide it?

Hope coursed through Harry at the idea. Madam Pomfrey had tried everything else. Harry didn’t hesitate. This was perhaps the only hope they had, and he would try anything to save Draco. He felt strong now, energized with this new hope, as he gathered his focus again into the center of his magic and concentrated on Draco.

Immersing himself in the magic, Harry could sense the wrongness that bound Draco – he could feel the strangling, tangled lines of force that imprisoned him and the terrible, gaping wound that wept his life out. Harry laid his hand over this wound, and with all the love in his heart sent the power of his magic into Draco; with every ounce of his strength of mind, he visualized the wound healed, Draco’s magic sealed and whole, saw with his wish the blue-violet of Draco’s aura restored and shining, the choking green light failing and faded away. He held this image in his mind and projected it through the magic with all his might . . . and felt the stirring, exhilarating rush of Draco’s magic responding.

And what Harry wished became truth. Between one moment and the next, the wound was healed. The binding prison of green light vanished.

Harry’s magic joined with Draco’s and for a dizzying moment they were the same self. Bonds that were severed healed and joined again and there were no boundaries between them; they were well and whole together. Harry felt that wonderful musical vibration surrounding them, weaving them together; he felt Draco’s heartbeat, matching his own like rhythm and counterpoint, strong again.

“Draco?” he whispered hesitantly, and then caught his breath when a surge of warmth, intimate, loving and so welcome, flooded into his heart and the boy in his arms stirred slightly and sighed. “Draco?” he called softly, but urgently now, as tears of relief filled his eyes. “Draco!”

* * * * * 

Footsteps sounded in the forest, light and subtle, merely a rustle of displaced leaves, but unmistakably coming closer. Draco shivered and strained against the vines that held him. He knew what that meant now; he remembered this, too. Panting, he had no breath to scream, but the pain was more than he could bear now . . . and the footsteps threatened him with more. A futile sound, a bare whimper, rose from his throat when the unicorn stepped into the clearing.

As before, the unicorn stepped delicately out from between the trees; its white body dappled in leaf-shadow, its long pale mane trailing like ragged silk to its feet. It stood still for a moment, its eyes, hauntingly green and luminous, stared at Draco as the raindrops spilled down Draco’s face.

_Why should you live?_ it asked.

Draco trembled at the question, for there was no answer he could give. He had betrayed his father, abandoned his mother and deceived his friends. He deserved this pain, this isolation. And perhaps the unicorn was right . . . perhaps he _didn’t_ deserve to live. And yet . . . how could he say the words, _There is no reason I should live_ , and surrender all resistance to this vicious judgment? He was already physically helpless to stop it, but to say those words would condemn him to accept defeat in his soul as well. How could he answer a question that demanded that of him?

The unicorn took a step forward. _Why should you live?_ it asked again, insistent, and the forest echoed with the word. _Why?_

Draco closed his eyes, but he knew when the unicorn’s head came down, felt the perilous closeness of the ivory horn as it sliced through the air that whispered its own echo in his ear.

_Why?_

He let the question go unanswered still. How could he let his heart submit to this cruel retribution and allow the beast to pierce him again and again and take this last small bit of life from him . . . when it was all he had left?

_Think why!_ said the voice of the unicorn, sharp as an ivory blade in his mind. _Think!_

Draco tried to think, but he didn’t understand this new command. There was too much pain; it scorched his mind dry and blackened his heart to ashes, hollowing him out with its searing fire, and there was no hope of relief. He didn’t need to think why. This pain was what he deserved. It held him and he held to it tightly in turn for it was still his own life . . . but . . . oh God, he didn’t think he could endure it any longer.

He felt the cold burn of the ivory horn against his throat. It lay against his skin like a flame of ice, poised, deadly, threatening pain beyond bearing, awaiting his answer. The question twisted in his mind, distorted now by the relentless torment of the pain. Why _should_ he live? Perhaps he had misunderstood. Perhaps there was no censure in the question at all, but an offer of release. If he said the words, if he let go. . . . Why _should_ he live, bound and suffering, when the unicorn could set him free? A distant memory came to him, that once, more than for his own life, he had longed for peace . . .

_Peace._

The word drifted like a cooling mist through Draco’s tortured mind. Like a soft sigh, peace crept unexpectedly into his heart, easing his hurt with its delicate soothing touch. It poured into him gently and slowly, a liquid caress that flowed out through him from the center of his heart and all the sharp edges of the pain melted away before it. Draco breathed it in, drank it into his bones, drowned in the depths of it and let it wash away even the memory of his pain. And when this exquisite feeling of peace had filled him to the brim, another feeling welled up in his heart.

Warm and profoundly comforting, intimate and dearly cherished, this new feeling was something he had longed for far more than the blessed peace that filled him now. He was not alone; he was not uncared for and abandoned. He was loved.

Draco caught his breath as this knowledge poured into him. _Love_. The word floated, took shape and formed another word in his mind, a name. _Harry_.

“Harry,” whispered Draco, remembering snow and flying and tender words spoken high in the air in a gloriously painted sky. He remembered smiles and kisses and warm, stirring touches, and loving hands that had woven a solemn vow with his heart in a magical moonlit dance.

_Why should you live?_ demanded the unicorn again, and the horn slid down, the sharp tip a point of freezing fire upon Draco’s chest.

The question spun and shifted in Draco’s mind, upending itself once more into new meaning. _Why should you live?_

“Because I love someone,” he said softly, awed, as the knowledge filled him with elation. “And . . . because I am loved.” He opened his eyes to find the unicorn’s shining green eyes gazing back at him with compassion.

_Then live_ , it said, and with those words, the unicorn dipped its horn into the great wound in Draco’s chest.

Draco stiffened in alarm, but there was no more pain. Instead, a wonderful feeling of lightness came into him. The vines around his arms and legs loosened and fell away. He looked down and the wound was healed, with only a small scar to show where it had been. Draco looked up to meet the unicorn’s liquid green eyes curiously, wonderingly . . .

“Draco?” The voice came from everywhere, echoed faintly.

With a sigh, Draco cupped his hands around the unicorn’s face, laid his own face against its furry warmth and closed his eyes. It felt so good to touch, to move, again. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Draco?” The voice came again, calling urgently. “Draco! Wake up, love. Please.”

Draco opened his eyes. Green eyes, full of love and shining with tears, gazed back at him.


	18. Part III — Endgame — Chapter 18

  


_You and I_  
_We’ve seen it all_  
_Chasing our hearts’ desire_  
_But we go on pretending_  
_Stories like ours_  
_Have happy endings_

Lyrics from “You and I” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Harry felt the sudden restoration of the _Ti’kira_ binding as a surge of emotional warmth that poured into his heart and flowed outward, spreading out through his body in waves of tingles he felt down to his fingertips. It was a flood of warmth and love and comfort so familiar and cherished and essential to him now, that it made his breath catch as it washed away his fears, filling all the empty loneliness he’d felt in its absence.

For the most fleeting second he envisioned what he would see through the Aurascope, and knew it was true as certainly as if he could actually see it, that the thin diaphanous cord that linked him with Draco was now a two-way connection, with shining beads of gold running from himself to Draco, and a second stream of crystal white beads, like tiny prisms, diamond-bright, flowing from Draco into himself. He couldn’t help feeling a rush of joy, even while blinking back the tears of profound relief that welled up when Draco moved and sighed.

Harry rose up on one elbow to look down intently into Draco’s face, waiting, hoping, barely daring to breathe.

Then Draco opened his eyes.

“Harry?” Draco’s query was nothing more than a hoarse whisper, barely audible, but both wonder and confusion sounded in it. “Where . . . ?”

For a moment, all Harry could do was simply gaze, speechless, with his lower lip caught behind his teeth, into those beloved gray eyes. A deep thrill went through him at the sight of them for he’d almost despaired of ever seeing them again.

“We’re in the hospital wing,” said Harry, at last, his voice choked with emotion. “You were . . . hurt.” He remembered that Madam Pomfrey had readied a dose of the Reviving Potion for if Draco regained consciousness and he sat up. “C’mon,” he said gently. “Try to sit up a little. There’s a potion here you need to drink.”

Draco winced with pain when he tried to move, so Harry slipped one arm behind Draco’s shoulders and slowly and carefully helped him sit up, propping the pillow behind them so that he could lean back and let Draco lean against him.

Suddenly Draco drew a sharp intake of breath as memory came crashing back. “My father . . .?” he asked in alarm.

“The Aurors took him,” said Harry, holding Draco tightly within the circle of his arm. “You’re safe.”

Draco nodded and closed his eyes for a second, obviously relieved, then he looked back up at Harry, slightly startled again, his gray eyes filling with dawning astonishment as more memory surfaced. One trembling hand came up to hold weakly onto Harry’s arm. “How did I . . . ?” he whispered.

Meeting Draco’s questioning eyes with his own, Harry wondered where in the world to begin to explain. There was so much that he didn’t understand himself, and looking into Draco’s eyes, he felt his awareness of all of the connections that had been severed come flooding back, almost overwhelming in intensity. He felt their magical auras rejoin and the reconnection of the _Ti’kira_ binding, both so wonderfully welcome, but in this moment, suddenly frightening too. Their loss and restoration were a very vivid revelation of the contrast between his life before Draco and what he had gained . . . and nearly lost.

Harry was suddenly overcome with the magnitude of all that had happened. Abruptly his arms went around Draco’s neck as if in reflexive response to an impulse he was scarcely conscious of, and he pressed his face against the side of Draco’s face. “We almost lost you,” he breathed, agonized, into Draco’s hair. An edge of accusation that Harry had meant to keep to himself lay revealed in the sentence, exposed by the tone of his words to hang suspended in the air between them.

“I’m sorry,” said Draco, a raw sound like unshed tears in his voice.

Harry heard the tremor in Draco’s voice and sat back, blinking, sorry himself, his heart too full of conflicting emotions and his thoughts too jumbled with things that needed to be said but that had to wait, to know what else to say now. He took refuge in remembering what he should be doing. He reached over Draco to pick up the cup of Reviving Potion Madam Pomfrey had filled earlier. “You need to drink this,” he said, willing a calm neutrality into his tone. “It tastes terrible, but it helps a lot.”

With one arm still around Draco’s shoulders, Harry held the cup for Draco, tipping it just enough so that Draco could drink slowly. Draco’s eyebrows went down in a frown at the taste, but he didn’t argue.

However, Draco had only managed about half of the dose before the screens beside the bed were pushed hurriedly apart and Madam Pomfrey rushed in. “Is he . . . ?” she began, then she stopped mid-sentence in surprise, shocked not only to find her patient awake and sitting up, but Harry in bed with him. “Harry!” she exclaimed in a loud whisper. “What in the world . . . !?”

“I . . . I had to help him sit up,” stammered Harry, thinking furiously and blushing, equally startled at being discovered in Draco’s bed with his arm around the other boy. He’d completely forgotten about Madam Pomfrey and her Summoning Charm. “He woke up a minute ago,” he explained hurriedly, “and . . . couldn’t sit up by himself . . . to drink the Reviving Potion.” Then Harry saw Draco watching him sidelong, under his lashes; saw the barest hint of an amused smile curl at one corner of Draco’s mouth and his heart lightened so suddenly that he had to suppress an inclination to grin.

He took his arm out from around Draco and moved to let Draco lean back against the pillow. “I think he’s okay now,” he said hopefully, as Madam Pomfrey pressed her fingers worriedly to Draco’s wrist to check his pulse and tipped up Draco’s chin to look into his eyes. “Isn’t he?” he asked, watching intently for her confirmation.

“I’m completely at a loss to explain how, but yes, it would seem so,” Madam Pomfrey said, the relief in her voice very audible. “Though I suspect he’s going to be rather weak and need to stay in bed for a day or two,” she added, fixing Draco with a stern but caring eye. “I don’t mind saying you gave us quite a scare, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Draco in a very subdued tone, and he looked down contritely. “I’m sorry.”

“Never mind being sorry,” she scolded gently. “Just drink the rest of that potion now. It will help you get your strength back. Everything else can be sorted out in the morning.” She motioned Harry to hand the cup of potion to Draco, but Harry ended up still having to help Draco hold the cup while he finished drinking it.

“I want to do a more thorough check with the Aurascope, but I think that can also wait until morning,” said Madam Pomfrey to Harry as he handed her the empty cup. “And I want you,” she said to Draco, “to try to get some sleep now.”

Draco nodded and he turned to look at Harry, a silent appeal in his eyes.

“If you wake up and need anything,” Madam Pomfrey went on, “we’ll both be nearby to help. I’ll be in my office and Harry just across the room.”

“Don’t make him go,” said Draco softly, reaching out to lay one hand on Harry’s arm as if to hold him there. He looked up at Madam Pomfrey. “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Harry startled a little at the boldness of this request, and also turned to Madam Pomfrey. “I can put him to sleep,” he volunteered, hoping to forestall her answer.

Madam Pomfrey hesitated a moment, looking from one boy to the other, then nodded at Harry, though her expression was frankly perplexed. “Go ahead and use the Sopire Diuturnus Spell, Harry. I want him to sleep through until late morning if possible.” She watched while Harry gently helped Draco lie back down and saw their eyes meet with a look that she was at a loss to understand.

And when Harry did the spell, there was such an understated, subtle, but indescribable tenderness to the way he touched Draco that she was moved unexpectedly to smile. Harry did the spell so flawlessly that she couldn’t help feeling quite proud of him, even if he had overstepped proper protocol by climbing into bed with his patient.

“Very nicely done, Harry,” she said a moment later, when Draco was sleeping peacefully. Then she regarded him more sternly. “And now that he’s asleep,” she said, “I think an explanation is in order. Will you please tell me what’s going on here?” She waved her hand in a gesture that seemed to include not only Draco’s recovery, but also Harry’s current location in Draco’s bed and Draco’s hand that still rested with a possessive intimacy on Harry’s arm.

“I . . . well, that is, we . . . ,” Harry started, feeling his face go warm, knowing he was blushing again. He needed to tell her the truth, but now that he was faced with having to actually do it, how could he explain it? He looked down at Draco’s sleeping face and his heart contracted with affection and the smallest bit of lingering fear. It was still only moments ago that he’d been afraid those eyes would stay closed forever. “He _is_ going to be okay, isn’t he?” he asked instead.

“With a couple of days rest, I believe he will be perfectly fine. His pulse feels normal and strong now,” said Madam Pomfrey, “though when I left to go to bed, I could barely find it.” She pinned Harry with a very direct though puzzled gaze. “I can’t believe that that somehow happened spontaneously, especially since none of the spells I tried earlier worked. Just tell me what happened, Harry. What did you do?”

Harry took a deep breath. This more specific question he could answer. “I used the wandless healing method you taught me,” he said, “and I . . . that is I didn’t plan to – it just happened – and it wasn’t actually a spell . . . I just thought maybe if he was aware at some level, he might be in pain or scared and I wanted to try to reach him somehow, to let him know he wasn’t alone and that I –” The words spilled out in Harry’s earnest effort to explain, until he caught himself about to say: I love him. He paused, grasping for a different explanation. “– that . . . that we were trying to help him,” he continued after a second.

Madam Pomfrey nodded, though that explanation had made little sense to her. “Go on,” she said. “Just take your time and tell me everything from the beginning.”

“Okay,” said Harry, trying to put his thoughts in order. “I had examined him earlier with the Aurascope like you asked me to,” he started. He shuddered a little at the vivid memory of the strangling net of green light that had shrouded Draco’s body and of the horrible black wound in the aura over Draco’s chest.

“So you saw the terrible damage the Killing Spell had done to his magical aura?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “I saw why you said he was still dying.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I did the Calming Spell you taught me. And it was while I was doing the spell that I felt him respond a little.”

“You _felt_ him respond?” asked Madam Pomfrey, amazed. “How?”

Harry closed his eyes, trying to remember exactly what had happened next, searching for the words to explain it to her. Very quickly, he realized he would not be able to explain it at all without telling her about his relationship with Draco and the way their magic was joining. He gave a small, resigned sigh, then looked up at her, meeting her eyes squarely. “I guess I should explain that Draco and I have been . . . seeing each other,” he said slowly. “Not many people know – it hasn’t been going on very long.”

“Seeing each other?” repeated Madam Pomfrey, not immediately understanding. “You mean . . . romantically?” she asked, her eyes widening first in surprise and then sparking with sudden comprehension as some of the puzzling things she had seen began to make sense.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I was planning to talk to you about it anyway after the holidays,” he continued, “because something is going on between us . . . with our magical auras . . . that we don’t understand. I can see our auras joining, and I can feel him through that connection.”

Madam Pomfrey sat down in the chair next to the bed and regarded Harry with interest. “And you think this . . . connection . . . was involved in Mr. Malfoy’s healing?” she asked.

“I don’t know how else to explain it,” said Harry. “But there’s more,” he added, then hesitated, feeling his face flush with heat at what he was going to have to tell her. “I found out a couple of days ago that I can do wandless magic other than healing,” he said self-consciously, his voice quiet, “and without actually using a spell.”

“That’s a very significant thing to find out,” said Madam Pomfrey slowly, but wondering if Harry truly realized how incredibly significant it was.

Harry nodded, grateful for her low-key response. “So, when I felt Draco respond to the Calming Spell,” he went on, “I thought maybe it worked because it was wandless healing. I knew the usual spells you’d tried earlier hadn’t worked. I also knew I hadn’t learned any wandless spells that would help, since they’re all so specific. But I was desperate to do something, and when I remembered that I’d done transfiguration magic before with just a thought and not an actual spell, I just reacted. As hard as I could, I pictured him with the all that green light disappearing and the wound gone. I pictured him being healed in my mind and used that visualization to direct the wandless magic.” He paused for a second. “And it worked,” he said simply.

“And it was an extremely dangerous thing to do, Harry!” exclaimed Madam Pomfrey. “To try something untested like that, with no one here to back you up in case you got into trouble.”

Harry looked away, stung by her sudden scolding, and his eyes fell on Draco, relaxed now in sleep. A little color had returned to Draco’s face, but bluish shadows still remained under his eyes. “I had to try,” said Harry very softly, fighting back tears that once again welled up from the overload of emotions he felt. “No matter what the risk.” He looked back up at her, sniffling quite unheroically. “I . . . I couldn’t let him die.”

Madam Pomfrey’s expression softened considerably. “No, of course you couldn’t let him die,” she said. “But I’m just thanking all the powers that be right now that what you did worked and that we’re not faced with losing both of you. If your auras _are_ connected, you could just as easily have been pulled under the same spell.”

She watched Harry nod and impatiently wipe his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Harry,” said Madam Pomfrey gently, “you did an incredibly amazing and wonderful thing, and there’s no question that you saved Mr. Malfoy’s life tonight. But please promise me you won’t be so careless of your own safety again.”

Harry sniffled once more and swallowed at the lump in his throat. “I promise,” he said. The sudden surge of energy provided by his elation at Draco’s recovery was now running thin. He felt overwrought; all the raw emotional ups and downs of the day, as well as the expenditure of his magic in healing Draco, had worn him out, and it was this he knew, not so much Madam Pomfrey’s deserved scolding, that had brought back the tears. And the sleep spell he’d put on Draco was probably affecting him, too, because he was beginning to feel drowsy.

But now that he’d told Madam Pomfrey about their auras, he was very curious to know what it meant. “I’ve never heard of auras joining,” he said. “What would cause that?”

Madam Pomfrey shook her head with a small smile, stood up and poured the last of the Reviving Potion into Harry’s cup, then handed it to him. “Harry, you look done in,” she said. “I think you need to finish this. I can make a new batch in the morning for Mr. Malfoy.”

She ignored his grimace and waited while he drank it. “There’s only one reason I can think of,” she went on, in answer to his question, “only one type of circumstance, if you want to call it that, where magical auras have been known to be joined. But it’s really, well . . . quite rare, and I’d rather consult Professor Dumbledore about it in the morning before we jump to any conclusions. He’ll be the best one to help me confirm it or not.” Then she looked at Harry questioningly. “Does _he_ know about you and Mr. Malfoy . . . ?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure he does,” said Harry, stifling a yawn. He felt much more settled now as the potion took effect, and much sleepier.

“Then tomorrow will be soon enough to sort everything else out,” she said. “I dare say you’ve been through quite enough for one day. A good night’s sleep is what you need most.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry wanting nothing better, now that he was reassured Draco would be okay. He shifted down in the bed, getting ready to lie down next to Draco.

“Harry!” exclaimed Madam Pomfrey. “You can’t sleep _with_ him!”

Looking down at Draco’s hand still resting on his arm, Harry decided to be assertive. “I want to,” he said, “if I may . . . and you know, he asked me to.” He glanced back up at Madam Pomfrey. “The truth is,” he said, blushing again slightly, “I’ve done the sleep spell on him before when we’ve slept together because he has trouble sleeping. And I was . . . well . . . lying here intending to sleep with him tonight when I ended up doing the healing magic . . . because I was afraid to be so far away.”

She eyed him sternly. “I don’t even want to know how you two managed to arrange to be sleeping together,” she said, “but I’m quite certain Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall would not have approved if they’d known. And this is a hospital. It’s highly improper . . .”

Harry met her strict gaze steadily, pouring every ounce of entreaty he could muster into his eyes. “Please,” he said. “He seems to sleep a lot better when I’m with him, and I don’t think I could sleep at all otherwise. I’d be too worried that he might have a relapse . . . and I wouldn’t know.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t,” she said, then paused. “However, since he’s under a sleep spell . . . and considering the other circumstances,” she said, finally relenting, “I’ll allow it. But just for tonight,” she added quickly as Harry grinned his thanks.

After she left and turned out the lamps, Harry, at long last, was able to lie down and relax. Draco was going to be fine. The pleasure and relief of that knowledge washed through him in the way a first warm rain washes away the last remnants of winter’s ice. He eased down in the bed next to Draco and gently pulled the other boy close, into his arms.

Draco stirred in his sleep, not waking but moving to settle into Harry’s embrace, his head on Harry’s shoulder, one arm going around Harry’s waist. Harry sighed, content and grateful for so many things, not the least of which was that this long and horrible day had finally come to an end. He breathed in and out, feeling the glorious, matching rise and fall of Draco’s breathing, and let sleep take him.

* * * * * 

Harry woke gradually, stirred slowly out of sleep by the sound of quiet voices close by, his first sensation the awareness of warmth and Draco’s soft hair tickling his cheek. Harry recognized Madam Pomfrey’s voice.

“Our Harry is an incredibly talented natural healer, Albus,” she was saying. “What he did for Mr. Malfoy last night is nothing short of a miracle. I never could have done it. In fact, I don’t know _anyone_ who could.”

Harry didn’t move, but two things suddenly jolted him fully awake. First was the realization that he was in bed, holding Draco in a very intimate manner, and that Madam Pomfrey and the headmaster were standing right there. The second was simply that Draco was there, alive and warm and holding him back. A wave of mixed elation and embarrassment raced through him and he kept his eyes tightly shut, hoping fervently that he would not blush and give away the fact that he was awake and listening.

“But he told me the most puzzling thing last night,” Madam Pomfrey continued. “So besides letting you know that Mr. Malfoy appears to be recovering just fine, that’s why I asked you to come in so early this morning.”

Hazarding a peek, Harry opened his eyes just enough to see Professor Dumbledore turn to look at Madam Pomfrey as she handed him the Aurascope. “As you can see, all the curse damage we observed last night is gone,” she went on. “Harry told me that their magical auras were joining. I hardly believed that was likely, but it’s true. Their auras _are_ joined – I studied them myself just before you arrived – and the only thing I can think of to explain that is a Magebond. But, of course, given how rare they are, I’ve never actually seen one. I wanted your opinion of it.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore, gazing through the Aurascope. “I couldn’t be sure before, but I had suspected this myself. In fact, it was Fawkes that first suggested the possibility to me – perhaps he was even able to see the beginning of the connections between their auras – wonderful birds, phoenixes, you know – but yes, this certainly confirms it. Not only are their auras joined, but if you look closely you can see the small sparks of energy-transference between them where they are touching. That’s both of the definitive diagnostic characteristics.”

“So it _is_ a Magebond,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I just didn’t think it could happen between . . . well, that is historically, I’ve never heard of a Magebond existing between two males. Aren’t the pair involved usually lovers?”

“Yes, they always are,” said Dumbledore. He lowered the Aurascope and faced Madam Pomfrey. “It’s only been known to happen when an exceptionally strong love is shared between the two people involved and is only fully established if the couple become lovers.”

“But, Albus,” she said, “as far as I knew, Harry and Draco Malfoy were always fighting with each other. Even after what Harry told me last night, that they were seeing each other, I hardly believed . . .”

She paused and turned back to look at the sleeping boys. Caught up in studying them clinically, she hadn’t noticed, but now she looked at the way they were lying together, and really saw how they were holding each other. Harry’s arms were around Draco as if doing that was something he was deeply familiar and comfortable with, and treasured. Draco’s face was turned toward Harry’s, his head resting in the hollow of Harry’s shoulder, his body nestled against Harry as if even unconscious in sleep, he knew with certainty that he belonged there. Her hand went up to her cheek. “Harry said they had slept together, but I never imagined he meant . . . It must be true, though, that they’re lovers.”

Dumbledore’s bushy silver eyebrows went up and he looked at her over the tops of his glasses. “That _would_ seem to be the most likely explanation,” he said, a hint of drollery in his voice. He raised the Aurascope and looked through it again. “Most likely indeed,” he added thoughtfully, “especially since there also appears to be a _Ti’kira_ binding between them.”

“A _Ti’kira_ binding!? But . . . that’s virtually a marriage!” gasped Madam Pomfrey. “Harry said he and Malfoy hadn’t even been seeing each other very long . . .”

“A Magebond is virtually a marriage too,” said Dumbledore, still looking through the Aurascope. “And if the right combination of energies is present to create it,” he added, “it’s hypothesized that it only takes a first kiss, perhaps only a shared touch, to trigger the initial stages of aura-joining. Judging from the personal accounts I’ve read on this subject, the developing Magebond then becomes intensely emotional and immensely compelling. Some Magebonded couples have stated that they could barely tolerate being separated. So once Harry and Draco allowed it to start, it shouldn’t be surprising that their relationship naturally progressed quite quickly. I think we may have reason to be thankful that they were at odds with each other for as long as they were. If this had happened when they were younger . . .”

“Oh my, yes,” said Madam Pomfrey. “That doesn’t bear thinking about.”

“The energy-transference sparks are mostly quiescent now while the boys are sleeping, but I believe I can just make out the colors,” said Dumbledore. “They appear to be gold and . . . a very clear crystal white. How would you interpret those colors?”

“Diamond and gold . . .” said Madam Pomfrey thoughtfully. “Well, they’re both strong, pure elements, though one is hard and the other soft. I would say it indicates that the power between them is evenly matched. Neither is likely to overshadow or break the other. In fact, I think they would be a good balance to each other.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Dumbledore, as he handed back the Aurascope. “It appears we are going to have quite an interesting situation here.”

Harry smiled secretly into the pillow at that and snuggled slightly closer to Draco. He didn’t want them to find out he was awake just yet; he wanted to stay here close, holding Draco for as long as he could, feeling the other boy’s strong heartbeat under his hand like a joyous shout.

Then suddenly, the sound of the corridor door flying open and swift footsteps approaching caused both Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey to rush out from behind the screens still in place around Draco’s bed. Harry cautiously opened his eyes, and through the gap left by the headmaster and the nurse’s hasty exit, he could see Professor Snape sweeping across the room toward them, followed closely by Professor McGonagall.

“I’m quite certain I asked you both to meet me in my _office . . ._ ” said Dumbledore with a significant pause. He fixed both of the professors in turn with a mildly critical and questioning gaze over the tops of his half-moon glasses.

Snape, clutching a small, crumpled piece of parchment in one raised fist, completely ignored the reproach implied in that pause. “Why wasn’t I told about this yesterday?” he demanded. “Why am I only just _now_ finding out that Draco Malfoy was injured and brought here?”

Dumbledore raised his hand for Snape to lower his voice and Harry saw McGonagall eye her fellow professor severely. He wondered if she had tried to stop him from coming.

“I did not tell you until this morning,” said Dumbledore very quietly, “because Madam Pomfrey wanted no one else in here. At first the situation was much too urgent, and then she felt that complete quiet was required. I know you care about him, Severus. If there had been anything you could have done, I would have called you immediately. In any case, I intended to let you know first thing this morning.”

Snape scowled and folded his arms across his chest, turning his glare on Madam Pomfrey. “May I see him _now_?” he asked in a terse voice.

“Now is not a good time,” replied Madam Pomfrey stiffly. “They’re still sleeping.”

“They . . . ?”

“Yes. Both Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are still asleep and given what they’ve been through, I won’t have them being disturbed.”

“Potter?” snapped Snape. He turned to Dumbledore. “Your note said only that Malfoy was brought in last night from Hogsmeade. What has Potter got to do with it?”

“It’s a rather involved story, Severus,” began Dumbledore. “Surely we can discuss this over tea in my _office . . ._ ”

But Professor McGonagall interrupted. “Is Potter all right, Albus?” she asked, looking worriedly around the room. “And _where_ is he? I don’t see any other bed taken . . .”

“They’re both there,” said Madam Pomfrey, indicating the screened-off bed.

“What!?” Snape’s eyes narrowed furiously. “You allowed them to sleep together!?”

“I was not very pleased with the idea myself, last night,” said Madam Pomfrey, huffily, “but they both insisted, and well, considering the circumstances we’ve discovered this morning . . .”

“Circumstances?” hissed Snape, his voice getting louder and angrier. “ _Circumstances?_ What circumstances could possibly – ”

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, “lower your voice. This is not the right place or time. If you’ll just come with me, we – ”

Snape cut him off. “I will not be shooed off to some piddling tea party, Albus! I want those two separated. _Immediately._ If Potter was mixed up in this somehow, then I have no doubt it was _his_ fault that Malfoy was injured in the first place. They should _never_ have been allowed to get involved – ”

“Severus,” repeated Dumbledore, more sternly, “it’s much too late for that. You are not in possession of all the facts.” He paused. “You see, Draco was a lot more than merely injured. Lucius cast the Killing Curse on him.”

There was a shocked silence. “He’s dead?” whispered Snape. “I thought you said – ”

“He is _not_ dead,” said Madam Pomfrey, breaking in irritably, “but that’s _only_ because Harry intervened.”

Harry heard Professor McGonagall gasp and there was another shocked silence.

“So _Potter’s_ dead, then,” said Snape acidly. “What did he do – act the hero and step in front of the spell? He _would_ be so stupid.”

“No one is dead, Severus,” said Dumbledore calmly. “I only meant that it’s much too late to separate them. What they have with each other is very rare – ”

“Oh, _please_ ,” snarled Snape. “Don’t tell me you’ve been taken in by some ridiculously silly romantic notion and fallen for all of their foolish, nonsensical drivel about refusing to stop seeing each other. It just simply can _not_ – it _must_ not – be allowed. It’s too dangerous – as this incident proves!”

Dumbledore regarded Snape silently for a couple of seconds, his eyes showing just a hint of amusement. “And just how do you propose we dissolve a Magebond, Severus?” he asked. “Or a _Ti’kira_ binding?”

Snape stared at the headmaster, dumbfounded. “A _Magebond?_ ” he managed to choke out finally. “ _A Ti’kira binding?!_ ” He turned slightly green, like he’d swallowed something unpleasantly gristly again. “Malfoy and . . . and _Potter?_ ”

“Yes,” said Madam Pomfrey decisively. “And it was that Magebond, coupled with the fact that young Harry is a gifted class-seven mediwizard,” she added with not a little pride in her voice, “that appear to be the major factors in what saved Malfoy’s life.”

There was a third shocked silence.

“I need to sit down,” said Snape in a faint, strangled whisper.

“Albus, I really think you need to explain what is going on,” said McGonagall, her tone strained, bordering on exasperation. “ _I_ didn’t even know Potter was that advanced in Magical Medicine.”

“Which is exactly why I summoned you both to my _office_ this morning,” said Dumbledore. “There are plenty of comfortable _chairs_ there,” he added, raising one eyebrow at Snape, “and we can all sit down together and talk about the implications of this unexpected occurrence over tea and breakfast.” Dumbledore spread his arms and herded Snape and McGonagall toward the door. “I summoned you both there this morning to do just that, because there appears to be many things we need to discuss about the future of these boys.”

“I’ll be along in a moment,” said Madam Pomfrey, heading back behind the screens around Draco’s bed.

Harry watched her set the Aurascope back down on the table and sat up, careful not to wake Draco.

“Did you hear any of that, Harry?” asked Madam Pomfrey quietly.

“A little,” he said. “I heard something about a . . . a Magebond?”

“I’m certain the headmaster will want to talk to you about _that_ himself, right after we’ve met with the professors, so I strongly suggest that you get up and get dressed before he comes back.” She gathered up the empty potion pitcher and both cups, then turned back to Harry. “After the meeting, I’m going to go down to the dungeons and make up more of the Reviving Potion. I want to be sure Mr. Malfoy drinks a dose of it when he wakes up. Will you be all right here alone for a bit?”

“Sure,” said Harry. “Is there anything I should do . . . if he wakes up before you get back?”

“No. Just let him sleep as long as he will, and keep him quiet if he does wake up. I’ll have the house-elves bring you up some breakfast.”

Harry waited until she left and then got up, easing out of the bed so that Draco wasn’t disturbed. He crossed the room and sat on the opposite bed, drawing his feet up and staring absently at the floor, absorbed in thought about the conversation he’d overheard. He’d never heard of a Magebond and had no idea what it was or what it meant, but evidently it was the cause of their auras joining. The sparks he had been seeing between them – energy-transference sparks, as Dumbledore had called them – were part of it, too. And it was, judging from everyone’s reaction, something very significant.

A house-elf appeared with a breakfast tray laden with two plates of food and Harry suddenly found he was starving. He ate hurriedly, then dressed, wishing he had clean clothes to put on instead of the damp-feeling, rumpled ones he’d worn yesterday.

Harry had just finishing tying his shoes and stood up to go back to Draco’s bedside when the door to the hospital wing opened and Professor Dumbledore came back in. “Ah, Harry,” he said. “Precisely the person I wanted to talk to.” He came across the room to stand by Harry’s bed. “Draco is still asleep?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I put him under a pretty powerful sleep spell last night.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore again. “Madam Pomfrey should be back shortly,” he said. “She went to the Potions lab to brew more Reviving Potion, but I suspect now that Severus knows it’s for Draco, he will insist on doing it himself.” He drew up a comfortable chair out of the air with his wand and sat down, motioning Harry to sit as well.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed and looked expectantly at Dumbledore, both curious and anxious to hear what the headmaster wanted to talk about.

“Madam Pomfrey has told me a great many surprising things this morning,” said Dumbledore. “First of which is that you are responsible for Draco’s amazing recovery. And second, that you used wandless magic without any spell.”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry. “But I didn’t really know what I was doing. It just happened.”

“Yes, she explained that, too, Harry,” replied Dumbledore. “Which is why we want you to begin working with Professor McGonagall privately instead of continuing with your regular Transfigurations classes in the next term. Draco will also be asked to attend, since we not only need to determine the extent of this new talent of yours, but you both need thorough training in how to use the Magebond effectively.”

“Sir?” interrupted Harry. “What _is_ a Magebond? I know it has something to do with our magic combining, but I’ve never heard of it before. What does it mean?”

“To put it simply, it’s very rare for wizarding folk to be able to combine their magical energies,” explained Dumbledore. “When it does happen, we call it a Magebond, and the couple involved are referred to as Mages, but,” he cautioned, gazing seriously at Harry, “a Magebond is not a simple thing.” 

He paused a moment noticing Harry’s very puzzled expression. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, Harry, and as soon as Draco is well enough, I intend to sit down with both of you and explain it in more detail. It’s very important that you both understand and learn to safely handle the magical energies you now share. The effect of combined magic can be extremely powerful and without proper control, it can be quite unpredictable. One of you could be critically weakened when the other does magic.”

Harry nodded, understanding, remembering how Draco had said he felt drained when Harry had unexpectedly transfigured the snowball into butterflies.

“In the meantime, Harry,” Dumbledore went on, “this is something else that we need to keep very strictly to ourselves. As you and I and Arthur Weasley discussed yesterday, it is imperative for Draco’s protection that we keep his involvement in his father’s arrest as quiet as possible, and the Ministry has agreed to that as well.

Most importantly, we must keep the fact that the Killing Curse was used a secret. I explained everything to Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall this morning, and it is essential that no one else be told. Far too many questions would be asked if that was known since Draco is still alive. The last thing we need is to have the Daily Prophet get hold of that story.”

Harry nodded, recalling his distressing experiences with Rita Skeeter.

“Arthur contacted me this morning,” Dumbledore went on. “Your friends, Hermione and Ron, are begging to be allowed to visit and I took the liberty of giving them permission. Now that Draco’s condition is no longer critical, I thought you might like to see them.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Thank you, sir.”

“But I’m going to ask you not to confide even in them about any of this. And though it’s asking a lot of you, that includes keeping the way Draco was healed a secret, too.”

Harry gave Dumbledore a relieved smile. “It’s not asking a lot,” he said. “I really would rather _not_ tell anyone about it yet.”

“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, still looking quite serious, but pleased as well. “Now, let me tell you quickly what has happened since last night and let you visit with your friends.”

Harry listened to Dumbledore’s very brief explanation of the events that had taken place since the confrontation at the Portkey hub, and then the door to the hospital wing opened just a little. Ron cautiously stuck his head in. “Can we come in yet?” he whispered.

Harry nodded but put his finger to his lips to indicate they should be quiet.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley,” said Dumbledore, standing up with a smile and waving away his conjured chair. “Arthur tells me that felicitations are in order.”

“Yes, sir,” said Ron, his ears turning rather pink. Hermione smiled but her eyes were fixed anxiously on Harry.

Dumbledore rested his hand for a moment on Harry’s shoulder. “I’ll let you know if there is any more news,” he said. With a telling look at Harry to remind him of what they had agreed and a nod to Ron and Hermione, he left.

“Oh, Harry,” said Hermione when Dumbledore had closed the door behind him. “We were so worried.” She hugged him tightly. Ron had his hands shoved in his pockets as if he didn’t quite trust himself not to hug Harry, too. “We wanted to come yesterday after Mr. Weasley told us what happened,” continued Hermione, pulling back to look at Harry’s face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m okay,” he said. “Now that I know Draco is getting better.”

Hermione spoke very softly and earnestly. “I’m so sorry, Harry. Mr. Weasley told us he was almost killed, and that last night they thought he might not survive. Is he really going to fully recover?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “It looks like he’ll be fine.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Ron, “for doubting him. My Dad said Malfoy risked his life to expose his father and that now the Ministry has a very good chance of arresting all of the Death Eaters. He’s ecstatic and is talking like Malfoy is some kind of a hero, but . . .” Ron paused, his mouth going tight. “I know what he did was good, but God, Harry, he took an awful risk with you, and I can’t like that. I told you I was sure he was up to something. Maybe he wasn’t plotting _with_ his father exactly, but he _was_ plotting. So I _was_ partly right.”

“Hush, Ron,” said Hermione, tugging at his sleeve. “Not now.”

But both Harry and Ron ignored her. “I know,” said Harry, facing Ron seriously. “He lied to me and he used me.” The tone of Harry’s voice was laced with a subtle bitter edge. “For a few minutes,” Harry went on, “when Lucius Malfoy showed up, I thought you were completely right. I really thought he’d betrayed me just like you said he might. Now . . . well . . . he has a lot of explaining to do.” The anger that Harry had been feeling since yesterday surged closer to the surface, but again, he pushed it down, willing it aside for the time being.

“You know he loves you, Harry,” said Hermione. “You’re not doubting that now, are you?”

“No,” said Harry. “This isn’t about love; it’s about trust. I trusted him and even if he didn’t betray me to his father, he did put me . . . both of us . . . in a very dangerous situation. I just need to know that I can trust him again.”

Ron shook his head. “Well, if you ask me, trusting _any_ Malfoy is a mistake, so I for one still plan to keep an eye on him. But,” he amended quickly, intercepting a very pointed glance from Hermione, “even _I_ have to admit that he’s proved which side he’s on.”

“You’ll work it out, Harry,” said Hermione, patting his arm. “I’m sure of it. Just give him a chance to explain.”

Harry met her concerned gaze steadily. Even with everything Draco had explained in the letter, Harry had been left with many unanswered questions. But he also vividly recalled the joy he’d felt when the _Ti’kira_ binding between them had been restored and he remembered the promises he’d made as Draco lay dying. _Whatever you did, whatever happens . . . I’ll still love you._

“Of course, we will,” said Harry resolutely. “Nothing’s changed. We just need to talk, that’s all.”

Ron turned away as Hermione smiled reassuringly at Harry and his eyes fell on a strange tangle of blackened metal lying on the bedside table. “What was this?” he asked, lifting up Draco’s ruined necklace to look at it.

Harry groaned softly and held out his hand. Ron laid it on Harry’s palm and Harry closed his hand around it. He couldn’t bear to look at it, and somehow he was going to have to tell Draco that it was gone. “That was my Christmas present to Draco,” he said quietly. “It _was_ a necklace. Draco was wearing it yesterday when . . .” Harry paused, remembering that he had agreed not to talk about this.

But Ron finished the unspoken sentence. “You mean the spell that wounded Malfoy hit it and . . . did this?”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

Ron whistled. “That must have been some nasty kind of Dark Magic.”

“Thank goodness you were able to get him to Madam Pomfrey in time,” said Hermione, looking grim.

“We barely did,” said Harry, and that was the truth.

They were all silent for a moment, then Hermione reached over and touched Harry’s closed fist. “Let me see the necklace, Harry,” she said gently. “Perhaps it’s not completely ruined.” Harry shook his head, but opened his hand, and she examined the tangled mess thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll start with the simplest question, first,” she said. “Have you tried casting _Reparo_ on it?”

Harry glanced up at her, startled, sudden hope leaping up inside him. “No!” he said. “I was too upset. I never thought of it.”

“I know an advanced version of the spell. If that doesn’t work, nothing will.” Hermione pulled out her wand. “May I?”

“Of course, yes!” said Harry eagerly.

“ _Reficio_ ,” she said firmly, with an authoritative flick of her wand.

For a half-second, nothing happened, then there was a shimmering flash of light and a sizzling sound. Harry felt the necklace wriggle in his hand and in the next second it was whole and lying coiled, all smooth sliver and bright crystal, in the palm of his hand.

“Oh, God, Hermione,” breathed Harry. “Thank you!”

“It’s really beautiful,” said Hermione, then she laughed. “It’s shaped like your scar, Harry!”

Ron craned over to look. “Hey, I remember seeing those. So _that’s_ why you knew about that jewelry shop,” he said grinning. He turned to Hermione and took her hand. “Harry went with me to get your ring.”

Harry tucked the necklace into his pocket and grinned back as Hermione extended her left hand to show off the pretty ring he’d helped Ron pick out. “Congratulations on making it official,” he said, thumping Ron on the back and hugging Hermione. Ron blushed and looked quite pleased with himself.

“I should go back and sit with Draco,” said Harry. “I don’t want him to be alone when he wakes up.”

“We need to get back to the Burrow anyway,” said Ron. He rolled his eyes. “Mum has invited all the relatives over this afternoon to announce our engagement.”

“We’ll be back to visit tomorrow, Harry,” added Hermione apologetically. “Will you tell Draco that we’re very glad he’s safe?” She glanced at Ron expectantly and raised one eyebrow.

“Oh. Right,” said Ron, after a second’s delay. “Yeah, we’re glad.”

“Thanks,” said Harry with a lopsided smile and Hermione hugged him once more briefly. “See you tomorrow, then.” He slipped back behind the screens around Draco’s bed as soon as they left. Draco was still asleep, but when Harry sat down carefully on the end of the bed, he stirred. A moment later his eyes fluttered open.

Draco lifted one hand and rubbed his eyes, brushed the hair from away from his face and looked up to find Harry looking back. Their eyes met with questions on both sides. “You _are_ here,” Draco whispered. “I wasn’t sure . . . if I dreamed it.”

“I’m here,” echoed Harry. He’d held Draco all night, but now that Draco was awake, Harry felt a distance between them that he didn’t know how, or maybe wasn’t yet willing, to bridge. His feelings were still so unsettled; he felt suddenly awkward, and made no move to touch Draco. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

Draco moved as if to sit up, then winced and laid back. “Like you used that rusty Muggle spoon on me after all.”

Harry smiled slightly at that. If Draco could try to be witty, that was a very good sign. “Do you think you can eat something?” he asked. “Madam Pomfrey had some breakfast sent up. She’s gone right now to make more of that potion. She wanted you to drink it as soon as you woke up.”

“That nasty stuff?”

“‘Fraid so.”

Harry brought in the breakfast tray and helped Draco sit up, and though Draco’s hands were somewhat unsteady, he was able to eat by himself.

“What happened to my father?” asked Draco when he had eaten as much as he could and Harry had set the tray aside. Harry returned to sit at the end of the bed.

“Dumbledore just told me he’s being held for the moment at the Ministry,” explained Harry, “though he’ll be sent to Azkaban once they’re through questioning him. Last night they used Veritaserum on him and this morning quietly arrested all the Death Eaters he named. He gave a location for Voldemort, but they didn’t find him.” Harry paused a moment. “Draco, you should also know – they went through your house last night confiscating papers, and anything else that might be evidence. But Dumbledore made sure they didn’t damage anything, for your sake.”

“What about . . . my mother?”

“They’ve taken her to St. Mungo’s. Things were pretty crazy at the Portkey hub after your father cast the curse. Everyone there heard it and saw you fall, but then the Aurors were too involved in getting Lucius under control and transported away to see what happened after that. Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley and I were the only ones that knew you hadn’t been killed. It was the three of us that brought you back here using our two brooms. Unfortunately though, when the Aurors went to your house . . .”

Draco closed his eyes and his mouth formed a thin tight sorrowful line. “They told her I was dead?”

“Yes. She fainted when she heard what Lucius had done and when they couldn’t revive her at the house, they sent her to the hospital. Dumbledore sent private word to the hospital first thing this morning that you’d survived and they think she’ll be fine, once she finds out you’re alive. But they may keep her there anyway for a while, for protection’s sake, at least until all the arrests have been made.” Harry could feel Draco’s worry tugging at his heart, and tried to sound encouraging. “As soon as you’re well, Dumbledore said you can go visit her.”

Draco nodded, staring down at his hands, and said nothing for a long moment. Then he sighed unhappily. Finally he looked up, meeting Harry’s eyes staunchly, though he seemed guarded. “And what about you?” he said in a voice that shook slightly.

“I’m fine,” said Harry, hoping that sounded believable.

But Draco was studying Harry’s face intently. “No, you’re not,” he said at last. “You’re angry.”

Harry exhaled audibly, vaguely annoyed that Draco would have to see through him just now. “It can wait,” he said in a low voice.

“No, it can’t.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest protectively. “I can feel it. And it hurts. I need to know what it means.” He faced Harry with a mixture of appeal and distress and defiance in his eyes. “Yesterday, I thought I would never see you again,” he said, “but this hurts worse. To see you and feel this and . . . now you’re sitting so far away and I don’t know why.”

Harry stared at Draco in silence. He hadn’t expected to have to talk about this yet. He’d tried to keep these feelings suppressed and hadn’t had time to understand himself what he was feeling. Now, faced with Draco’s undeniable perception, he had no idea even where to begin.

“Just tell me,” said Draco, barely over a whisper, “whatever it is. I need to know.”

“When you started this game you played with me,” said Harry finally, “you promised you would be honest with me.” His voice broke slightly, and he looked down away from Draco. “No one in my whole life, Draco, has ever been as open and honest with me as you were those first days we were together. Or so I thought. I trusted you completely. And then . . .” Harry stopped talking, a terrible lump in his throat. He swallowed and looked back up at Draco.

Draco’s head was down, his long blond hair falling forward, covering his eyes.

“And then . . .” continued Harry, his voice becoming increasingly taut as he spoke, “then I find out you lied. That you betrayed my trust in the worst possible way. How did you think I would feel? I don’t think angry even _begins_ to describe how I feel right now.”

Harry saw Draco shrug slightly or perhaps flinch at his words, but he was too upset to stop. “And you didn’t expect to have to deal with any of this, did you?” he asked heatedly. “All of that ‘Can’t it wait until after I come back from the holidays?’ crap you said to me. You didn’t think you’d have to face any of it. Not me, not Ron, not Pansy, not leaving the Quidditch team in the lurch . . .”

“No, I didn’t expect to still be here,” Draco said softly, “. . . and I still don’t understand . . . I don’t know how that happened . . .”

He paused, looking up at Harry for a moment through that fine pale fringe, hopeful perhaps that Harry would answer his implied question. But Harry said nothing and he went on. “Right now, I’m just trying very hard not to be terrified that I am.” Draco raised his head and pushed his hair out of his eyes with one hand. “I not only betrayed my father,” he said gravely, “I took their vows and then betrayed all the Death Eaters. That act carries a death sentence I may not ever feel safe from.”

A cold vise seemed to grip Harry’s heart. Draco had said something about this in his letter, but Harry hadn’t really let it sink in. “You took the Death Eater vows?” he asked now, horrified. “Draco! Did you let them mark you?”

“No,” said Draco, his stomach turning at the memory of the grisly, repugnant ordeal he’d gone through. “Only Voldemort can make the Dark Mark. My father had planned for that to happen when we took you to him. But . . .”

He paused a moment and a shadow of apprehension crossed his face. “I don’t know how binding those vows are by themselves. My father said something . . . about them being preliminary vows. . . that would bind me to Voldemort _after_ I took the Dark Mark. Maybe the vows don’t have any real power by themselves; maybe the power of the binding is only in the magic of the Mark. But what if they are? What if I _am_ sworn to the Dark Lord now? Either way, they will want to punish my betrayal. That’s partly why my father tried to kill me. And why I didn’t try to avoid it.”

“Then you _wanted_ to die?” asked Harry, shocked.

“No!” said Draco, raising his voice for the first time. “Nothing about this had _anything_ to do with what _I_ wanted. Don’t you understand? I was forced into this.” He looked away for a moment, getting control again and then went on, his voice still full of emotion. “I was as honest with you as I could possibly be. I never lied to you about my feelings for you. There were just . . . some things . . . I couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?” asked Harry curtly. “I _don’t_ understand. Why couldn’t you tell me?”

“First, because my father is not so easily tricked,” said Draco flatly. “You are a terrible liar, Harry. There’s no way you could have pretended the look you had on your face in that first moment when you thought I had betrayed you. I knew my father would be waiting for that, would be watching your reaction closely. He would never have committed himself to using the Imperius Curse on you unless he was convinced by your expression that I’d done exactly what I’d been told to do.”

Draco’s chin came up slightly. “And second,” he said challengingly, “I didn’t think there was any way you’d agree to do it.”

“Well, you were certainly right about that,” said Harry tersely. “But ignoring for a minute the fact that you _did_ betray me by tricking me into doing what you knew full well I wouldn’t have agreed to . . . Even if you couldn’t tell _me_ , Draco, you didn’t have to do it alone. You didn’t have to take such a risk by yourself. You could have gone to Dumbledore and asked for help – ”

“No, I couldn’t! Do you think for one second that Dumbledore would have agreed to allow me to use you as bait in a trap to catch my father? That _anyone_ would? But you were the _only_ thing my father would have fallen for. I always intended to ask for Dumbledore’s help, just as I did – at the last minute – after it was too late for him to stop me.”

“God, Draco,” said Harry. “That’s the whole point! You used me! As bait! And then risked your own life like that – ”

“I did what I had to do,” continued Draco insistently. “I made sure _you_ would be safe. But my father had to be stopped. He was completely obsessed with the idea of being the one to give you to Voldemort.”

Draco stared at Harry, increasingly upset now by Harry’s continued refusal to understand. “Don’t you remember I told you that he had given me an ultimatum over the summer and was forcing me to do something to prove my loyalty? Well, that was it. I was to figure out a plan that would get you captured for him by the end of the school year or he said he would get you anyway and give us _both_ to the Dark Lord! My life was already at risk!”

Draco’s last words seemed to echo in the empty hospital ward and both he and Harry sat silent for a long moment.

“I was the only one who knew how determined he was to get you,” said Draco, trying very hard to speak calmly again. “The night I first kissed you, I realized that I was the only one who could stop him. That because I loved you, I _had_ to stop him. He gave me no choice.”

Draco sighed and went on, his voice tight and weary. “If he had been willing to leave you alone, I never would have done this. But neither of us could ever have had any kind of future, whether we were together or not, as long as he was determined to take you. And I had to make him believe I was on his side until he had implicated himself in front of witnesses or he would have been putting that Imperius Curse on _me_ in private and would have _forced_ me to hurt you. I would rather have died than let that happen.”

Harry had been staring down at his hands while Draco talked, but he drew in a sharp breath at that and looked up.

“I didn’t have much to live for back when I made up this plan,” said Draco more softly. “My father had made it very clear that my only options were to join the Death Eaters or be turned over to the Dark Lord as a traitor. So, willing or unwilling, they intended to use me to get you. Dying seemed my only way out . . . and if I _was_ going to die, I intended to do it with some purpose. After we got involved, of _course_ I didn’t want to die. I just didn’t think I could be saved. I didn’t know anyone would try to.”

“Didn’t you think _I_ would try to? Or Dumbledore?” asked Harry, though the truth of Draco’s words stung. No one _had_ kept him safe.

“I couldn’t depend on _anyone_ else,” said Draco defensively. “There were too many uncertainties. I was taking a terrible chance as it was, counting on Dumbledore getting my message and arriving in time. And even then, I was only thinking of having him there to be a witness and to make sure you were safe. It wasn’t until I arrived at the Portkey hub about five minutes before you did that I found out he’d anticipated the danger I was in and had Aurors stationed there in advance.”

Draco looked away from Harry’s hard, unyielding expression for a second and took a deep breath. “You have to understand,” he said going on resolutely, “that the only thing I _was_ certain of is that I know my father. I knew he’d lash out and try to kill one of us when he realized what was happening, and I couldn’t assume that Dumbledore would be able to stop him. As many times as he threatened my life in the last couple of years, I had no doubt he’d go through with it. I just made sure to goad him enough that it was definitely me he was aiming for, not you.”

He paused, glancing back up at Harry, meeting the angry green gaze levelly. “The entire wizarding world would have been badly demoralized if he had killed _you_ , Harry,” he said bluntly, “but I wouldn’t have been missed.”

Harry made an inarticulate sound. “ _I_ would have missed you! Did you really think you could just . . . apologize and . . . and die . . . and I would get over it?” he asked incredulously. “I would have _never_ gotten over it!”

Draco’s brave front seemed to crumble at Harry’s words, his shoulders sagged and he stared down at his hands, silent for a long moment. “I know,” he said finally, quietly. “ _That’s_ what the apology was for. I just never imagined, when I started this, that you would want . . . us. And it wasn’t until you told me about that girl that I realized how much I would be hurting you.”

“So your real plan,” said Harry tautly, “was to use me to trap your father into getting himself sentenced to life in prison to keep him from hurting me . . . and it didn’t matter if you died in the process because you didn’t think anyone would care. Is that it?”

“Essentially, yes,” said Draco with a weary sigh. He looked up at Harry, sadness creeping into the straight line of his mouth.

“Draco, what you planned would have hurt me even if I’d never started to love you!” said Harry, barely containing his need to yell this. “God, it would have hurt me even if I’d never _known_ you. I don’t want _anyone . . . else . . ._ to _die_ for me!”

“But people will die in this war, Harry,” replied Draco softly. “Including people you love. Either one of us could still die. You must know that.”

“I _do_ know that! That doesn’t mean I want to accept it,” said Harry furiously. “Bloody hell, Draco! I don’t know what I’m more angry about – that you used me like this or that you deliberately took such a terrible, idiotic, thoughtless chance with your life!”

“I did what I believed I had to do,” repeated Draco in a very low, hurt voice. Underneath the sadness in Draco’s mist-gray eyes there was still a grim determination that reminded Harry of steel. “I promise you it was _anything_ but thoughtless. But if you want to think it was reckless and stupid and . . . and hate me for it, then that’s no more than what I expected.”

A wave of heat crossed Harry’s face and he sat staring at Draco, speechless.

In the long moment of silence that followed, they heard the door to the corridor open and close. A few seconds later Madam Pomfrey, carrying a pitcher of freshly made Reviving Potion and a cup, came in between the screens around Draco’s bed.

“Awake then, I see,” she said cheerfully to Draco. “How do you feel?”

“Okay, mostly,” said Draco in a tight voice. “Pretty weak. And it hurts . . . here.” His hand pressed a spot in the center of his chest.

Harry stood up abruptly.

“Well, that’s probably to be expected,” said Madam Pomfrey, “as that was the entry site of the curse. The pain should go away in a day or two, but I’m afraid you’re going to have a small curse scar there.” She poured a cupful of the potion and held it out to Draco. “Here. This will do a lot to help the pain and weakness.”

But Draco didn’t take the cup. At the mention of the curse scar, his hand had traveled up an inch or so to just below his collarbones and he’d glanced up at Harry with a stricken look in his eyes.

“I have to go,” said Harry.

Madam Pomfrey turned to look questioningly at Harry.

“I . . . I need to go back to my room and . . . change clothes,” said Harry. “I just . . .” All at once everything had become overwhelming, and he’d had enough. Enough of wearing dirty clothes. Enough of being in the hospital wing. Enough of Draco. “I just have to go,” he said again softly, and fled.

“Well, that seemed a bit sudden,” said Madam Pomfrey, still holding the cup. She looked down at Draco and saw that his face had gone even paler than it had been a moment ago. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m afraid he’s rather . . . upset . . . with me,” replied Draco, staring into the empty space where Harry had been. His hand was still at his throat, lying empty and bereft over the spot where Harry’s beautiful gift had once hung.

“I can’t say that I blame him, you know,” she said. “Not after what you put him through yesterday and last night.” She held out the cup again. “Here now,” she said. “Drink this down. I’m sure it will all come right, you’ll see.”

Draco’s hands trembled slightly as he took the cup from Madam Pomfrey. He took a tiny sip and gave a small, involuntary shudder at the taste. “No, it won’t,” he said, rather mournfully. “He hates me again.”

Madam Pomfrey laughed a short, light laugh. “I’m quite certain that’s _not_ the case,” she said. “I think it’s more likely that he’s just now reacting to the terrible fright you gave him. He’s been far too busy taking care of you to let himself think about it before now.” She shook her head at Draco’s sorrowful expression, but smiled kindly. “Come on now, drink that. You’ll feel a world better for it.”

Draco took a deep breath and drank it down quickly. It tasted positively vile, but warmth and strength flowed into him as it went down. “Did he really stay . . . to take care of me?” he asked, as he handed the empty cup back.

“He did a lot more than that, dear,” said Madam Pomfrey.

A faint flush of color crept back into Draco’s face at the unexpected endearment, and he looked up at the nurse, his heart in his eyes. “Will you tell me what happened?”

* * * * * 

Harry raced back to the Gryffindor dorm, his feet pounding down the deserted corridors and up the empty staircases, his heart pounding, too, as loud in his ears as his running footsteps. He’d known the instant Draco had realized the necklace was missing. A wrenching, sinking feeling of loss had swept through him just before Draco had looked up with confusion and grief in his gray eyes, and Harry had suddenly needed to get away. He needed to be out of the hospital wing, he needed space, he needed time to think. The fact that he was also badly in need of a shower and a change of clothes really had nothing to do with it.

The Fat Lady looked startled as he ran up, and Harry gave a second’s thought to the fact that she hadn’t seen him since Christmas Eve. “Plum pudding,” he said quickly, giving her no time to comment on it. He went straight to the boy’s bathroom, stripped off the clothes he’d been wearing since yesterday and got in the shower. The hot water felt good; it could have been calming if he’d let it, but he didn’t. Instead he soaped and rinsed as quickly as he could and got out. Then, with a towel wrapped around his waist, he gathered up his clothes and went to his dorm room.

He dropped his dirty clothes on the floor by the end of his bed and put on clean clothes from his trunk. Finally, he sat down on the side of his bed, his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head down into his hands. His damp hair, which he hadn’t even bothered to comb, stuck out haphazardly between his fingers. All the thoughts, fears and emotions he’d held at bay since yesterday came tumbling and crashing into his mind.

He was furious with Draco for so many reasons: for putting him in jeopardy, for risking his _own_ life, for planning something like that so secretly, for putting him through such a scare and emotional turmoil, and most of all, for refusing to admit he’d been wrong to do it. Harry recalled what he had said to Hermione: _“Nothing’s changed. We just need to talk, that’s all.”_

Well, they _had_ talked and though Harry hadn’t expected that talk to be so soon or so volatile, nothing _had_ changed. Harry wanted Draco back in his arms, wanted to talk to him softly and laugh with him and look in his eyes. He wanted to hold him and kiss him, all with an intensity that easily rivaled his anger. _So why did I walk out?_ he asked himself angrily.

He exhaled a long breath and laid back on the bed, trying to put his emotions into some kind of understandable order. Maybe all he needed was the time to be alone long enough to sort everything out in his mind. The most obvious thing he felt was the anger – for all the reasons he’d told Draco – but underneath that anger was a seemingly bottomless well of fear and uncertainty. Harry felt very badly shaken. Breaking up with Cho so suddenly had not even come close to ripping his world apart the way Draco’s dying would have.

Draco’s near-death had violently catapulted Harry’s awareness of their vulnerability, of their frail precarious futures, out from that nebulous, shadowy, unknown time-yet-to-come which Harry had much preferred to ignore into the very immediate present. Was he going to have to live every day faced with the imminent prospect that it could be their last together? That idea was more unsettling than anything else he felt. He’d completely given his heart – that wasn’t something he could easily take back – but how could he stay in a relationship that he knew might irrevocably shatter his heart at any unforeseen moment?

Yet, how could he not, when separation from Draco was unthinkable? Even now, as angry as he was, the distance between them gnawed at him with a kind of restless ache that was drawing him inexorably back. He’d known the risks from the first, and thought he was willing to take them . . . but now, suddenly, everything felt so much more perilous and unpredictable. And to have Draco treat the prospect of his own death so lightly, so carelessly . . . It was like a slap in the face. Would he do it again? Could Harry ever really trust him not to?

Harry remembered the times he’d tried to talk to Draco about his hopes and plans for the future, only to be told, _“I try not to think about the future.”_ Harry finally understood the reason behind Draco’s previous reluctance, but how did Draco feel now? That night, after they’d danced _Ti’kira_ , Draco had said, _“I can’t imagine I would ever want anything else.”_

Was that still true? Would Draco still want a future with Harry now that he was free of his father? Harry hadn’t given him a chance to say and that, too, was deeply unsettling.

Another thing that bothered him, Harry acknowledged, was simply that Draco had felt his anger so acutely. Harry was used to keeping things to himself until he was ready to talk about them. Having Draco as someone to talk to, someone who would keep things private between them, had been immensely appealing. But there had still been an element of privacy in that. If he didn’t want to talk about something, he could keep it to himself, and so far, Draco had been very respectful of that. But the idea of having no emotional privacy at all had badly unnerved him.

He hadn’t wanted Draco to know he was angry – at least, not yet. Not first thing this morning when Draco was just waking up, barely recovered from an almost fatal injury. It made Harry feel rather mortified that he’d subjected Draco to such a barrage of questions, quarreling with him before they’d even touched each other again. He certainly hadn’t done a very good job of keeping Draco quiet as Madam Pomfrey had asked.

He wondered if Draco could feel what he was feeling now. And if he let himself relax and concentrated, would he know what Draco was thinking or feeling right now? Somehow this felt like very private eavesdropping and Harry didn’t like it. The . . . Magebond . . . if indeed that’s what was allowing them to feel each other’s emotions so vividly, was going to take a lot of getting used to.

On the other hand, thought Harry with a very fleeting smile, the experience of sharing Draco’s feelings when Harry did the magic, or especially during their lovemaking, had been exquisite. This connection they shared, might be occasionally uncomfortable, but it was also incredible and breathtaking and not something he would ever share with anyone else. Even Dumbledore had said how rare it was . . . And that thought only served to emphasize how irreplaceable Draco was in his life.

Thinking again of the necklace, Harry got up and found his jeans in the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Gently, he took the necklace from the pocket where he’d put it while talking to Hermione and Ron, and laid it across the palm of his hand. It gleamed softly in the sunlight from the window by his bed, smooth silver and bright clear crystal.

Hermione’s spell had worked perfectly. To see it now, no one would ever know it had been blackened and mangled, nearly destroyed, and Harry was very glad that Draco would never have to see it that way. But Draco’s stricken look, when he’d realized the necklace was gone, came back to Harry forcefully and he regretted allowing Draco to be hurt that way. Carefully, he folded the necklace and tucked it into the pocket of the jeans he was wearing. Very soon, he told himself, he would see it safely back around Draco’s neck where it belonged.

Harry bent and picked up his shirt from the floor and took the two letters, one from Cho and the other from Draco, out of the chest pocket. Cho’s letter he tucked into the pocket of the shirt he was wearing, briefly acknowledging that he still needed to talk to Draco about that.

Going back to the bed, he unfolded Draco’s letter and sat down to read it again. The tone of it was so much more apologetic than Draco had been this morning. Draco, Harry saw now as he read, _had_ been sorry for what he was doing. Very sorry. But Harry’s anger had put Draco on the defensive this morning and Draco, Harry knew, was not ever going to back down from him just because he was angry about something. 

Harry wished now that he had insisted on waiting to talk until he’d been able to sort out his emotions. He really hadn’t intended to let things get so out of hand, but once he’d started, the anger had gotten the better of him.

Harry reread the paragraph that had upset him so much last night:

  


> _I tried not to think about dying, about never being with you again, but it_  
>  _was tearing me up to know that that was what would probably happen and_  
>  _that you might hate me when it was over. Harry, please try to understand._  
>  _Please don’t hate me for wanting you to love me, for wanting to be with you,_  
>  _even when I knew it would end._

  


Oh, God. Harry felt those words crash like an immense weight smashing into his heart as he recalled what Draco had said to him this morning: _“But if you want to think it was reckless and stupid and . . . and hate me for it, then that’s no more than what I expected.”_

Last night, when he’d first read those words, they had brought him to tears to think that Draco would believe he could hate him. But Harry was forced to see that, this morning, he had acted exactly as Draco had feared. And he was horrified to think that Draco was most likely down in the hospital wing right now convinced that Harry hated him.

  


> _I always knew my death was inevitable – my father would have killed me_  
>  _eventually, because I would have denied him the loyalty he demanded and_  
>  _refused to help him give you to the Dark Lord. But my worst fear was that_  
>  _he would somehow force me to do it anyway. I could not have lived with the_  
>  _knowledge that my father had hurt you, or worse, used me to hurt you._

  


Draco had pretty much said the same thing this morning and Harry, too distracted by his own anger, hadn’t fully heard it. But now, reading it in the letter again, he recalled something Ron had told him days ago.

 _“I don’t think you get it,”_ Ron had said. _“Even if he didn’t want to, don’t you realize that they could make him do it? You’re not safe with him. And I hate to say it, but if he’s not on their side, then he’s not safe with you either. What do you think they’ll do to him, after they’ve used him to get to you?”_

A deep sinking feeling filled Harry’s stomach. He shuddered at the thought of what could have happened to both of them if Draco hadn’t gone against his father and finally acknowledged the horrendous choice that had been thrust on Draco. Draco had been put in a no-win situation in every way and had done the best he could.

 _“I did what I believed I had to do,”_ Draco had said, and Harry finally heard not just the commitment in those words but the desperation behind them. Draco had been forced to choose the unthinkable and had stood strong even though it denied him everything he wanted. He’d chosen to protect Harry over having Harry, even over his own life. Harry suddenly felt an tremendous sense of admiration for what Draco had done, for the choice he’d made and the strength with which he’d persisted regardless of all the pain he’d obviously felt.

Harry remembered standing in the Portkey hub, facing Draco and knowing with bone-wrenching certainty that he had to have faith in Draco, had to trust him even when everything seemed to cry out that he shouldn’t. He’d believed Draco then, and with a rising ache in his throat he realized he could not stop trusting Draco now. With a sudden sense of urgency, Harry reached for his shoes. He needed to get back to the hospital wing.

He’d gotten only one shoe on when there was a frantic tapping at the window near his bed. Harry looked up, puzzled, and saw something small and gray fluttering outside the glass. Pigwidgeon? Sure enough, when Harry opened the window, the tiny owl swooped in and whizzed madly about, circling his head. A small letter dropped to the floor at Harry’s feet, actually it landed on his bare foot, and with an excited twitter, Pig whizzed back out the window and was gone.

Harry scooped up the letter and opened it, surprised to find it was from Ginny.

  


> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _Hermione and Ron just got back and said that you’re okay and that_  
>  _Malfoy is recovering. After what Dad told us last night, I was so scared for_  
>  _you and for him, and I felt terribly guilty. Ron may never quite stop being_  
>  _suspicious of Malfoy, but I’m sorry now for doubting him. I would have felt_  
>  _horrible if he had died. Dad says that he risked his life to turn his father in_  
>  _to protect you – and that he said in front of all of them that he loves you. I_  
>  _know I told you that he was going to have to prove that he deserves your_  
>  _love. I just wanted you to know that I think he did. I am so glad you have_  
>  _him, Harry. You deserve to have someone love you that much._
> 
> _Love, Ginny_

  


Harry read the short note through twice and smiled at the way Ginny had over-romanticized the situation, but he was also very touched. To have her acceptance meant a lot to him. And to have Mr. Weasley’s support of Draco was entirely unexpected and very, very welcome. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had been like parents to Harry, and Ginny’s assertion that they would be terribly upset by his relationship with Draco had been a lingering, troubling thought in the back of his mind. But if Ginny and Mr. Weasley could accept and forgive Draco, Harry suddenly wondered what he was doing up here in his dorm room when Draco was down in the hospital wing all alone.

Harry jumped up, hurriedly tossed Ginny’s letter on the bedside table, then refolded Draco’s letter and put it in his pocket. They might still disagree about the wisdom of what Draco had done – and the fact that they loved each other, Harry knew, certainly didn’t mean they would suddenly start to agree about everything – but Ginny was right. Draco did deserve his love; he did not deserve to be left alone, believing Harry hated him.

Hastily, Harry scrambled to get his other shoe on, then bolted out of the dorm room, banging the door sharply behind him.

* * * * * 

Harry clattered down the tower stairs, taking them two at a time, and was halfway across the common room headed for the portrait hole when he was brought abruptly to a halt by the very unexpected sight of Professor McGonagall standing by the fireplace.

“Potter,” she said in a clipped tone. “I’d like a word with you.”

“But . . . I . . .”

“Now,” she said in a voice that allowed no argument. She motioned to one of the chairs near where she stood.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry and sat.

“I don’t know whether to be enormously proud of you or shocked beyond belief. I’m appalled that you went to meet Malfoy – without telling anyone, without any thought to what you’d been warned about. My God, Potter, what were you thinking?”

Harry opened his mouth, but she waved her hand dismissively, which was just as well since he really had no answer.

“Never mind,” she said tartly. “Don’t answer that. It’s quite clear that you were not thinking at all.” She paused, her lips pressed in a tight disapproving line. “Do you have _any_ idea where you would be right now if Draco Malfoy had _not_ been acting against his father?”

Harry bit down on his lower lip and looked away, staring into the cold, empty grate of the fireplace. Heat spread up from his collar to the tips of his ears and he shuddered at the thought of what would have happened to him under Lucius Malfoy’s control.

“I _know_ ,” he said after a long moment of silence. And it occurred to him then that this was another reason he’d been so angry. Draco had scared him badly in this way too – that he’d trusted someone only to find that he could have been so easily tricked, could have been just a hair’s-breadth away from the most awful betrayal imaginable. It was an extremely disturbing and unpleasant thought. It almost made Harry vow on the spot never to go outside the castle again.

Going to the Portkey hub _had_ been a very stupid thing to do, and yet, his trust in Draco had not, as it turned out, been misplaced. Harry looked back up at Professor McGonagall. “I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I knew I could trust Draco. I could feel it,” he said. “And I wasn’t wrong,” he added quietly.

“Whether Malfoy was trustworthy or not is beside the point,” said Professor McGonagall fiercely. “The fact that this whole fiasco somehow miraculously turned out . . . for the best . . . is also not the point. I trusted you _not_ to do something so incredibly foolish. You _both_ came very close to being killed!”

“I know,” said Harry again, miserably. The vehemence of her words ripped away the last small bit of self-assurance he’d managed to hold on to. He understood, though, that she was angry at him for the very same reasons he had been angry with Draco – from the shock and fear of what had almost happened, and that it was because she cared. “I’m really sorry,” he added in a very quiet, repentant voice.

“Good,” she said, crossing her arms, “because you’re going to sit right here for the next two hours and think about _how_ sorry you are.”

Harry looked up at her, scarcely believing what he’d just heard. _Two hours?!_ “But what about Draco . . .” he started and trailed off at her stern expression.

“Don’t think Malfoy is going to get off,” she said firmly. “As soon as he is properly recovered, Professor Snape will deal with him as he sees fit. You will both be put on detention for a week and neither of you may leave the castle grounds without permission from the headmaster.”

“That’s not what I meant,” protested Harry. “He’s alone in the hospital wing and I was on my way down to be with him right now.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression softened a little at Harry’s distressed face. “I just came from there, looking for you,” she said, “and he was fine. Madam Pomfrey is there if he needs anything.” She paused. “I don’t think it will hurt either of you to spend a couple of hours apart thinking about what a dangerous, foolhardy thing you did.”

 _But we just spent two days apart!_ thought Harry helplessly. His need to see Draco suddenly became overwhelming. If he hadn’t let his anger get the better of him . . . But McGonagall was not going to give in on this and he knew it. He slumped down in the chair, defeated. “Yes, ma’am,” he said in a very low voice.

She nodded at him, relenting finally. “I _am_ proud of you, Potter,” she said in a gentler tone. “We are all grateful beyond words that you were able to save Malfoy’s life.” She paused, eyeing him more kindly. “Have you had any lunch?” she asked.

“No,” said Harry, feeling very empty.

Pulling out her wand, McGonagall conjured a plate of ham and chicken sandwiches and a pitcher of pumpkin juice on a floating tray next to Harry’s chair. “Two hours,” she repeated, walking toward the portrait hole. “Then you may go.”

Harry sighed as he heard the portrait close behind her. A week of detention for both of them. His lovely idea of spending the next week before the new term started lazing about with Draco evaporated. And Draco was alone right now wondering if Harry hated him. Harry sighed again, picked up a sandwich and munched on it halfheartedly. He felt completely wretched and very, very sorry. It wasn’t going to take him two hours to figure _that_ out.

* * * * * 

Draco, too, was feeling very, very sorry. The nurse had done her best to reassure him about Harry, and Draco had allowed himself to hope just a little, but she had also informed him in detail what he had put Harry through. Then both Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall had come in to see him, though McGonagall had left almost immediately after finding out Harry wasn’t there. Snape, however, had lectured him quite thoroughly and let him know that he and Harry were not to leave the castle grounds and that there would be detentions to look forward to when he was recovered. None of that had done anything to make him feel better.

Now, he sat in his hospital bed alternately reading the book Madam Pomfrey had given him to study and finding himself staring at it, not reading at all, his mind having wandered off. Draco hadn’t expected to actually have to deal with Harry’s outrage over what he had done. Of course he’d known Harry would be justifiably furious, but this morning, having to face Harry’s angry questions and accusations had made him defensive. What Madam Pomfrey had told him had made him feel very small and quite deserving of that outrage, and had left him feeling more desolate and doubtful than ever.

He felt raw inside and more than anything he wanted Harry’s touch. Did he even dare hope that Harry would forgive him and want him again? He needed to feel Harry’s arms around him, to feel that profound sense of comfort only Harry could give him. His memories of last night were very hazy, but he did remember that Harry had been in bed with him and had hugged him desperately when he’d first regained consciousness. He even had a fleeting memory of waking slightly during the night to find Harry asleep with him, holding him. But these memories did little to soothe him now or diminish the deep empty longing that sat like a heavy lump in his heart.

After a bit, Madam Pomfrey stuck her head back in to check on him and a little while later a house-elf brought him a lunch tray. Draco picked at the food, his appetite gone, wishing Harry was there to eat with him. But there was no sign of him. Turning back to the book, Draco tried to read another page. If his thoughts had not been in such a turmoil, he would have found it quite interesting. But even reading this book had everything to do with Harry, and his concentration faltered again.

He found himself thinking back to the first night Harry had come to his room, of how Harry had said, _“I can stand up to a lot worse than that from you, Malfoy.”_ That statement had meant the world to him. And the night after that, he remembered how Harry’s kindness and understanding, his gentle words and touch had broken through all the walls Draco had built around his heart. There was no person, no event in his life that came close to matching the impact Harry had had on him. Until his relationship with Harry, he had never truly realized how profoundly, terribly alone he had been, and he did not want to find himself there again.

Harry had put up with so much from him, had already forgiven so much – had weathered his storms. Now it was Draco’s turn. Harry had every right to be furious with him, and Draco was just going to have to wait this storm out as dutifully and respectfully as possible. He smiled wryly to himself. If he and Harry were actually going to be together, weathering storms was probably going to be a common occurrence – for both of them.

But – _if_? God, how could he even think _if_?

Now that he had lived through this terrible ordeal his father had forced on him, he couldn’t imagine going forward without Harry. He’d been afraid to let himself wish for that future before, but now he was alive and he knew he didn’t want anything else. If he survived, but lost Harry . . . well, that was simply unthinkable.

He couldn’t bear the thought that Harry might not love him anymore. He had to believe that Harry was still the same boy who could be understanding enough to stand and knock at a door slammed in his face; that same boy who had said, “I love you,” with words, with his eyes, with his stirring magical touch. He had to have faith in that.

Draco sighed and picked up the book again. He managed to read several pages by keeping focused on how important this book was to the new future he wanted when he heard the corridor door open. He froze, listening intently. Soft footsteps came across the floor toward his bed, and he felt his heart skip a beat, recognizing the sound of those footsteps. Staring at the book, not even pretending to read, he waited.

* * * * * 

When Harry walked back into the hospital wing, Madam Pomfrey was not out in the ward so Harry assumed she was in her office. The room was completely quiet and he wondered if Draco was asleep. But when he slipped behind the screens around Draco’s bed, he found Draco was sitting up, leaning against a stack of pillows, looking at a book.

Draco glanced up and immediately set the book aside. The look in his misty gray eyes was withdrawn and sad, though a tiny flicker of hope had kindled at the sight of Harry’s face.

“Hey,” said Harry very softly, standing just inside the screens.

“Hey,” echoed Draco. The awkwardness Harry was feeling was very apparent and Draco looked down after a few seconds, determined to wait, to be calm, and to let Harry say whatever he needed to. He resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest; he wasn’t used to holding himself so open and vulnerable for anyone. It was hard, and it hurt. But this was Harry and he had to.

Harry hesitated a moment more. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to come back sooner but McGonagall made me sit up in the Gryffindor common room for two hours to think about what a stupid thing I’d done.”

He’d intended to say more, but Draco’s downcast eyes and sad expression yanked urgently at his heart, sparking an intense longing he was powerless to resist. He remembered how yesterday afternoon he had held on so carefully, desperately, to that precious fragile connection between them, frantic to keep it safe, and he realized that he held their future in his hands now in much the same way.

Apology was evident in every line of Draco’s body and Harry’s heart turned over. Whatever remnant of his anger was still left, melted away in an instant. He took the two steps that brought him to the side of the bed, sat on the edge close to Draco and laid his hand on Draco’s wrist.

Draco looked up and their eyes met. A thousand things were said in that one instant of eye contact and Harry’s arms went around Draco’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. His own need for this was so strong and he realized that the words he’d said, _“Whatever you did, whatever happens . . . I’ll still love you,”_ was not so much a decision or even a promise, as it was an imperative command of his innermost self.

He could not possibly stop loving Draco now, or stop wanting him. They belonged to each other in the most elemental way. Whatever pain or happiness their future entailed, however short or long, Harry knew they had to be together.

Draco’s arms came up around Harry’s back and he dropped his head down on Harry’s shoulder, his face against Harry’s neck. For a long time neither of them spoke, letting the heartbeats that echoed between them speak for them, then Draco lifted his head and whispered in Harry’s ear.

“I haven’t lost you, then?”

“No, of course not,” whispered Harry back. He lifted one hand and smoothed the hair down the back of Draco’s neck. “I just needed some time . . . to sort myself out,” he said.

“And?”

“I promised you forever, remember?”

Draco pulled back to look into Harry’s eyes, velvet gray meeting vivid green with candid, searing honesty. “I remember,” said Draco.

“And you promised me that, too,” said Harry softly. And though he meant not to, a bit of gentle accusation came through the tone of his voice. This was the crux of everything he had been upset about. “Draco,” he said earnestly, “I need to know that you meant that. That you won’t do this – that you won’t go off secretly and risk your life again. I . . . have to know . . . I won’t lose you like that.”

Draco looked steadily into Harry’s eyes. “I’ve always only depended on myself,” he said quietly. “I never trusted anyone; I never wanted to have to need anyone else.” He paused. “But I need you,” he said in a hushed voice. “I need you so much it scares the hell out of me.” He took a deep breath. “So, can you promise me that you won’t do that either? That you won’t disappear one day without warning, that the Dark Lord won’t take you, or that you won’t die in this war?”

“No,” said Harry, his voice low. “You know I can’t.”

Draco nodded and sighed. “I don’t think either of us can promise the other that,” he said. “I can promise you that I want to be with you; that I want that future you were wishing for – that I want every minute of every day with you for as long as we can be together.”

“That’s enough,” whispered Harry and he leaned forward to kiss Draco.

There was a tentativeness in Harry’s kiss that Draco felt keenly, but there was also tenderness and forgiveness in it, and apology, and the exploration of a new kind of trust, a trust that accepted uncertainty. Draco held on tightly and kissed back, his heart thrilling with the quiet, profound knowledge that they were both alive, he had not lost Harry, that it seemed they might have a future after all.

Harry pulled out of the kiss gently. He was smiling. “I have something that belongs to you,” he said, and went up on one knee so that he could reach into his pocket. He took Draco’s necklace from his pocket and held it out, then laid it gently in Draco’s hands.

“I missed this,” said Draco, cradling it carefully. “I thought it had been lost . . .” he added softly.

“It almost was,” said Harry.

Draco held it out, handing it back. “Will you put it on me?”

Harry took it and undid the clasp and reached around Draco’s neck to fasten it. His fingers traced the chain back down and he laid his hand lightly against Draco’s chest, next to where the gleaming pendant hung. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

“Not so much, now,” said Draco. “It’s a lot better. But . . . I’m going to have a scar. Madam Pomfrey put something on it while you were gone, to numb it and make it heal faster.”

Nodding, Harry undid the top two buttons on Draco’s pajama top to look. Just under the place where the pendant lay, the skin of Draco’s chest was marked with a pale red zigzagged gash. It wasn’t lightening-shaped like Harry’s scar; it was more like a slightly skewed letter M. Harry was suddenly amused to think that Draco was going to be marked with his own last initial. He looked up at Draco and grinned. “The girls are _really_ going to want to sleep with you now,” he teased. “Scars are irresistible, you know.”

Draco sniffed disdainfully. “Unlike _some_ people,” he said, refastening his buttons, “who shamelessly flaunt their scars by wearing them around on their foreheads, _I_ don’t intend to let anyone see mine.”

Harry laughed, and it felt great to laugh. He grinned back at Draco’s now teasing smile. Somehow things had eased back into being normal again, and that felt wonderful. “What were you reading . . . when I came in?” he asked, seeing the edge of the book poking up from the blanket on the other side of Draco’s leg.

Draco picked up the book and held it so Harry could see the cover.

“Hey,” said Harry, surprised. “That’s my text book for Magical Medicine.”

“It is not,” replied Draco with a smug possessive air. “It’s mine. Madam Pomfrey said I could come to class with you, that is . . .” He paused. “That is, if you don’t mind,” he continued earnestly. “I thought if we were going to be working together, I should know more about it.” 

“Draco, that’s fantastic!” exclaimed Harry. “Of course I don’t mind.” He broke out in a huge grin. “You really are planning to work with me?”

“I said I wanted to, didn’t I? If I could.” Draco raised one pale eyebrow and gave Harry an arch look. “Madam Pomfrey seemed quite relieved to find out that you weren’t going to be doing your own potion-making.”

Harry just grinned, too excited to take offense, and anyway, he knew that Draco was teasing. “That’ll make two classes we’ll have alone together,” he said. “Dumbledore told me this morning that we’re going to be dropping our separate Transfiguration classes and taking private classes together with McGonagall.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure,” said Harry slowly. “It has to do with something they called a Magebond – that we need proper training with it. Dumbledore is going to talk to us about it later.”

“A Magebond!” Suddenly, the little bit of color Draco had regained drained from his face and he looked shocked. “Us?”

“That’s what Dumbledore said this morning. He also said we shouldn’t tell anyone about it.” Harry noticed how pale Draco had gone. Why?” he asked, suddenly worried. “What’s wrong?”

Draco seemed unable to speak for a moment. Then he whispered, “God, Harry.”

“What?” asked Harry, becoming increasing alarmed. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a . . . binding of one person to another physically and emotionally through their magic . . . but . . . when you said you saw our magical auras joining . . . I never thought . . .” Draco looked ashen. “It’s an irreversible life-bond, Harry. In the wizarding world it’s treated even more seriously than a marriage, because it’s so rare.” His voice trailed off and he stared at Harry, visibly shaken. “God,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re . . . sorry?” whispered Harry.

“With our magic connected, if I had died, you might have too. What I planned could have killed you too!”

“It nearly did,” said Harry solemnly. “I felt the curse, Draco – everything went black, my heart stopped and I couldn’t breathe. We shared it between us. But I think that’s also what kept you alive. The spell you put on my ring drew some of the power of the curse away, and . . . this might have helped, too.” He reached out and brushed his fingers over Draco’s necklace. “But then I could breathe again and I felt you leaving me . . . and I couldn’t let you go. I don’t know how . . . but I just held on.”

Draco nodded, his eyes serious. “The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was seeing the Portkey hub lit up with red and green light. I thought maybe the Aurors’ Stunning Spells interfered with my father’s curse and that Madam Pomfrey healed me. But she told me what you did.” Draco reached out and took Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “I don’t know what to say, Harry. I owe you my life.”

“No more than I owe you mine,” said Harry firmly. “If you hadn’t gone against your father like you did . . .”

“. . . we might both be dead . . . or worse . . . ” said Draco somberly, not needing to voice what their fate would have been if they’d ended up in the hands of the Dark Lord. He looked up and saw the concurrence in Harry’s eyes and knew that finally Harry truly did understand.

And then another thought broke through like a startling, joyous revelation – if they were Magebonded . . . “You really want to be with me,” he said, as if somewhat astonished. There was no hint of a question in his words, rather it was a statement, a declaration of simple fact, and suddenly belief shone, brilliant, in Draco’s eyes. “You really _do_ love me,” he said in a breathless whisper.

“I really do,” said Harry with a light laugh. “I keep telling you that.”

“Don’t stop,” murmured Draco, as his lips met Harry’s.

And Harry wasn’t sure if Draco meant don’t stop loving me or don’t stop telling me you love me, but it didn’t matter because Draco was kissing him with an intensity that sent shock waves through him. And suddenly Harry couldn’t hold him tight enough, or close enough, or kiss him deeply enough or touch enough of him. His hands had just found their way under Draco’s pajama top, palms skimming over soft skin, exploring the enticing curves of Draco’s back – 

A loud, startling crash from right next to the bed caused the boys to jump apart. Harry turned around to see Madam Pomfrey standing just inside the bedside screens with a mixture of surprise, embarrassment and annoyance on her face.

In her arms was a stack of books, two of which were now on the floor, having slid off the top of the pile due to her abrupt halt at the sight of what she’d walked in on. She paused a moment more, collected herself, then set the books she was holding on the chair. Scooping up the books that had fallen to the floor, she turned to Draco with a knowing look. “So,” she said. “Was I was right?”

“Yes,” said Draco, giving her a slow smile. “Exactly right.”

“Well, then,” she said, setting the fallen books back on top of the stack, “perhaps you won’t be needing these right now after all. But,” she added, her voice implying a question, “if you _are_ going to study Magical Medicine with Harry, you’ll need to read them.”

“I’ll help him get caught up,” volunteered Harry.

“Good,” said Madam Pomfrey, turning then to Harry. “I’m glad to know you’re amenable to that.” Then she fixed him with a teasing twinkle in her eye. “And if you can stop molesting the patient for a moment, Harry, would you please see that he drinks that last dose of potion?”

Harry felt heat rush to his face. “Yes, ma’am,” he said sheepishly.

“And if he’s feeling well enough after that,” continued Madam Pomfrey, “you should get him up to walk around and exercise a little.”

“I will.”

She nodded her approval. “Then I’ll be back later this evening.”

There was a few seconds of silence after the nurse’s departure, then Harry turned back to Draco. “What did she mean, was she right?” he asked.

Draco reached out and straightened Harry’s glasses, pausing for a moment before answering. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come back,” he said finally. “I thought you hated me again . . . but she said you just needed time to get over how much I’d scared you.”

“Draco, I don’t think I could hate you now, even if you _had_ handed me over to your father,” said Harry emphatically. “But do you remember when you shoved me in the shower because the potion exploded?” He didn’t wait for Draco’s answer. “You said I scared the hell out of you. Well, _you_ almost died. You scared me a million times worse than that.”

“I know,” said Draco. He slumped down, looking sorrowful again.

With a sigh, Harry pulled him back into a hug. “I don’t want you to go away again, maybe ever,” he said softly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Draco.

Harry hugged him tighter. “Speaking of potions . . .” he said, rubbing Draco’s back, then letting him go, “you need to drink this one.” He leaned over and poured the rest of the Reviving Potion from the pitcher on the table into Draco’s cup.

Draco rolled his eyes, but took the cup and after eyeing it with utter distaste for a moment, drank it down. “One of the first things I’m going to do in Magical Medicine,” he said as he set the cup back on the table, “is find a way to make this stuff taste better.”

Harry laughed at that. “She made me drink it, too,” he said, giving Draco a commiserating look. But he also noticed that the potion had already put some color back in Draco’s face. “C’mon, then,” he said, teasing a little. “I’ll race you to the window down there and back.”

Harry took a moment to push the bed screens back out of the way as they no longer seemed necessary, then Draco got up slowly with Harry’s help.

“You’d think he’d cast the Jelly-Legs Jinx on me instead of the Killing Curse,” said Draco scornfully, taking his first few unsteady steps. But the potion worked quickly, and by the time they had walked all the way to the window, Draco was feeling much stronger.

“You need to know that Dumbledore is trying to keep what really happened to you secret,” said Harry, his arms going around Draco as they both looked out the window, “so we’re not to tell anyone that your father cast the Killing Curse, or that I healed you.”

It was snowing hard again, light fluffy flakes swirled past on the wind, brushing the window pane and melting instantly. “He’s trying to keep your involvement in your father’s arrest as quiet as possible, for your protection. Once all the arrests have been made, Dumbledore told me that the Ministry is going to take full public credit for ‘a brilliant undercover sting operation’ without mentioning either of us. Even Fudge is fully in support of it now. The full truth will be known only by the few people who will sentence your father.”

Draco leaned into Harry, feeling suddenly like he might cry. He hadn’t believed he would still be alive right now, standing within Harry’s embrace, and if he had, he never would have imagined that Dumbledore, and even the Ministry, would go to these lengths to protect him. The realization that had been growing ever since he’d woken up yesterday – that people did care about him – hit him hard now, and he turned his face into Harry, momentarily overcome by his unexpected emotional reaction.

Harry seemed to understand and simply held him closer, watching the snow fall; its silent, steady accumulation erasing all the violent tracks they’d left behind at the Portkey hub, covering everything with a blanket of clean white, like a blank piece of parchment on which the future had not yet been written.

“It’s a shame, though,” said Harry after a minute or so. He reached up and ruffled Draco’s hair lightly. “I would have loved to have seen what the Daily Prophet would have done with the story. You could have been a hero, you know. The Boy Who Lived, Too. Or maybe . . . The Boy Who Lived II.” He held up two fingers, and Draco had to laugh.

They walked several times up and down the ward, until Draco was tired, but Harry could see that this last dose of potion was quickly helping him regain his strength, and the small knot of worry that Harry had not quite let go of, loosened and slipped away. There seemed to be no doubt now that Draco would fully recover.

Once back in bed, Draco was curious to look at the books Madam Pomfrey had brought in, so they spent the next couple of hours before dinner absorbed in the myriad mysteries of Magical Medicine. Harry proved that he could be a good teacher, but Draco was also an interested and enthusiastic student. It was evident that both of them were going to deeply enjoy studying this subject together.

When their dinner came, Draco ate with a good appetite and Harry was even more pleased. He found himself hoping that Madam Pomfrey would let Draco leave tomorrow. He was just thinking they might manage to have some time alone together after all, in spite of the threat of detentions, when Professor Snape showed up.

He looked at Harry through narrowed eyes. “I see you came back,” he said in a slow disdainful drawl, his upper lip curling with distaste. “What a pity.”

Harry was opening his mouth to say something when he saw Draco smirk at him. Snape knew they were Magebonded and there was nothing he could do about it. Harry shut his mouth and smirked back.

“Madam Pomfrey told us at dinner that you were nearly recovered,” Snape said, turning to Draco, “and I see that you are.” He waved his hand at the books spread out over the bed. “What’s all this?”

“Harry’s helping me get caught up in studying Magical Medicine,” said Draco. “I plan to work with him when he becomes a mediwizard, as his Potions master.”

“Hmmm,” grumbled Snape. “Another pity. Quite beneath your talents. Though you will undoubtedly prevent a great many poisonings since the patients won’t be subjected to Potter’s substandard potion-making.” He wrapped his robes around himself and looked down his nose at them. “I’ll expect you both in my office first thing Monday morning for detention assignments.”

“Yes, sir,” said Draco with a sigh in his voice.

“Potter?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry, a little horrified to find out that Professor Snape, rather than McGonagall, would be assigning his detentions.

“Very well,” said Snape tersely. “Don’t be late.” He fixed them both with a dark, baleful stare and swept away with a swirl of his black robes.

Harry and Draco exchanged matching glances of resignation, and then the happy realization hit that this was Saturday and that meant they had all day tomorrow free and they grinned.

Draco set his dinner tray aside and picked up the book he’d been reading before dinner. Turning to an illustrated page, he frowned at the faded drawing a moment. “I recognize this,” he said, “but it’s almost impossible to read.”

“Well, it’s really old,” said Harry. “A couple of centuries, at least.”

“Yes, but I’ve seen a good clear copy somewhere recently . . .” He glanced up as a house-elf popped in to collect the dinner things, and memory, as well as a somewhat startling realization, kicked in. “Hey!” he said, looking back at Harry. “I know where I saw it. And now that my father is under arrest, I think I can call . . .”

Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a second, and – _crack!!_ Nobby, wearing a stained, monogrammed Malfoy tea towel appeared next to the bed.

Nobby took one look at Draco and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Oh, Master Draco!” he wailed. “You is _alive!_ ” He fell to his knees, clutching the bedclothes and burst into tears. “We believed you was dead!” he bawled. “The nasty Ministry wizards told our mistress so when they took away Master Lucius’s books and papers. Then they took away our mistress . . .” He sobbed louder. “We was not knowing _what_ to do!”

“Stop howling!” demanded Draco, completely taken aback by this unexpected spectacle. “Now, then,” he said in a quieter voice, when Nobby had at last managed to compose himself, though the elf still sniffled noisily every few seconds. “As you can see I am _not_ dead. _And_ ,” he added in a very stern voice, “I want to make it very clear that you are not to address my father as Master.” He eyed the trembling house-elf severely. “Not ever again. Do you understand?”

“I is understanding perfectly, sir,” said Nobby, with another loud sniffle. He bent down and wiped his long nose on the hem of the tea towel then stood up straight. “Mr. Lucius was a very bad, very cruel man. And even though Master Draco tricked and tormented us when he was a child, we was all knowing it was really Mr. Lucius’s idea. All the Malfoy house-elves is glad he is arrested. We will be most happy to serve Master Draco instead.”

Draco heard Harry stifling a laugh and gave him an annoyed look. Then a thought occurred to him and a devious glint blossomed in his eyes. “Ah, but that’s not the only change there will be,” he said decisively. “From now on,” he declared, “in addition to me, you will also have a second Master. I expect you to treat him in every way the same as you would me.” Draco was quite gratified a second later when Harry abruptly stopped laughing and looked back at him with a mildly horrified expression.

“And who is this new Master, sir?” Nobby asked.

Harry groaned. “Draco, no!”

Draco held out his hand to Harry, and reluctantly Harry took it. “Nobby, this is Harry Potter,” said Draco. “We are Magebonded. I trust you know what that means?”

Nobby turned to Harry and his eyes grew huge and round. “ _The_ Harry Potter, sir?” he squeaked. “You is Magebonded to _the_ great and famous wizard _Harry Potter_ , sir?”

Draco’s eyes went up to the ceiling and Harry’s face got decidedly pinker. “Yes,” said Draco. “So you will treat him just like you would me.”

“It is a great honor to meet you, Master Harry Potter,” said Nobby in a hushed, reverent voice. He clasped his hands together in front of his chest. “My brother was always speaking of you with the most highest respect, sir.”

“Your brother . . . ?” said Harry, at a loss.

“You set my brother free, sir,” said Nobby.

Harry stared at the house-elf. “Dobby is your brother?” he asked finally.

If it was possible, Nobby’s eyes got even bigger, his voice even more hushed. “You is knowing Dobby’s name, sir?”

“Dobby?” said Draco, before Harry could answer. “Isn’t that the elf that spelled the table in my room for me? He used to work for my father?”

“He did, sir,” said Nobby solemnly. “He was Mr. Lucius’s special servant before me, until Master Harry Potter tricked Mr. Lucius into handing him a sock.”

“Oh, my God,” said Draco on a breath and started laughing. “You really did that to my father?”

“Yes,” said Harry in a rather martyred tone. This had turned decidedly embarrassing. “It was the end of second year. Dumbledore gave him a job in the kitchens here.”

Nobby let out another awed squeak. “Dobby is working for the great Dumbledore at Hogwarts?”

“You didn’t know?” asked Harry.

“No,” said Nobby. “I is not seeing my brother for almost five years, sir. We was only knowing Mr. Lucius’s side of the story. Dobby could not dare to come see us.” He looked imploringly from Draco to Harry and back again. “Would sirs allow . . . ?” he asked tentatively.

Draco had somehow managed to stop laughing during this conversation, though he was still immensely amused at the thought of Harry getting the best of his father in that way. Lucius Malfoy had always been insanely obsessed with his servants. “Of course you can visit him,” he said. “But first,” he added hurriedly, before the happily beaming Nobby could disappear, “the reason I called you here to begin with was that I needed something from home.”

Nobby’s smile went unbelievably wide. “I is getting you anything you is wanting as fast as possible, Master Draco,” he declared fervently.

Harry started laughing again and now it was Draco’s face that turned a shade pinker.

“There are two antique Potions books on the bedside table in my room,” said Draco. “They were Christmas presents from my father. Would you bring them here?” he asked.

With a _crack_ the elf was gone and Harry and Draco barely had time to draw breath before he was back again, loaded down with the two heavy books. Harry jumped off the bed to take them and Draco gave permission for Nobby to go visit Dobby in the kitchens.

Then Draco gave Harry a look. “Kept that little tale to yourself, did you? Not good dinner conversation, indeed.”

Harry grinned. “I didn’t want to spoil your good mood or the lovely romantic dinner by bringing up your father. Now you can laugh at it. Before, it might not have been so funny.”

“True,” said Draco. “He never said a word about it to me, but God, he must have been furious. No wonder he had it in for you all this time. Well, that, and using you to further his excessive ambition to be the Dark Lord’s favorite Death Eater.”

Draco picked up one of the books Nobby had brought and thumbed through it. After a moment, he found the page he was looking for and handed the book over to Harry with a triumphant grin. “There,” he said. “I knew I’d seen it.”

Harry examined the picture and was suitably impressed. “These are beautiful books, Draco. Did you say your father gave them to you for Christmas?”

“Yes.” Draco sighed and leaned back against the pillows behind him, his face taking on a far-away, sad expression. “He was . . . good at some things . . . now and then.”

Setting the book aside, Harry moved to sit next to Draco and put one arm around his shoulders. Draco leaned into him and they sat quietly for a time, just absorbing comfort from each other’s presence.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry finally, not knowing what else to say. He couldn’t imagine the inner struggle Draco must have gone through to make him decide to betray his father. “I thought I knew,” he went on softly, “what you’d been through. But now . . . I think I only understood a little.”

“You have no idea how many times I wanted to change my mind, how close I came to giving up those last few days,” said Draco. “Every time I thought about dying, about losing you, I felt I couldn’t possibly go through with it. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want to leave you.”

He paused to take a deep breath. “But then the alternative was always right there, staring me in the face – that my father had vowed to give you to Voldemort. I had to keep telling myself that nothing, not my pain or my mother’s, or even yours if I died, could be worse than that.”

Harry tightened his arm around Draco and turned his face against Draco’s soft hair. “You were right,” he whispered.

Memories of the conversations they’d had before Draco went home surfaced, more and more of Draco’s confusing responses during the last days they’d had before Christmas made sense now. “I feel so awful,” said Harry, “that I was happy and talking about how we would get a house together and all the time you thought you were going to die. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“Oh, I did try, you know,” replied Draco, his voice showing a hint of its usual teasing scorn. Then it softened. “But I liked hearing you talk about us.”

Smiling, Harry lifted his head. “We could talk about it again, now . . .” he said. And as the words left his mouth, Harry caught his breath, remembering with the suddenness of a small electric jolt what he still needed to tell Draco, and was more than a little shocked at himself that he’d let it slip from his mind at all.

“Well, you won’t have to worry about finding a big house,” said Draco. “The fact that I was able to call Nobby here shows that the Malfoy estates have already passed to me. With my father condemned to life in Azkaban, I inherit everything, including Malfoy Manor, whether he likes it or not.”

He paused. “There’s just one thing, though . . .” he said slowly. “I don’t want to live there again. I don’t think I could, after this. And I don’t know if my mother will either,” he added with a sigh. “If that’s true, you can have your orphanage there . . . if you want, because, to be honest, I’m not sure that I can see myself actually living with a houseful of children. I wanted that for you, if I couldn’t be with you, so you wouldn’t be alone.” He met Harry’s green eyes apologetically. “If it was my wish, I would want someplace small and quiet, for just us.”

And although he was anxious about what he needed to tell Draco, a quiet thrill went through Harry to hear Draco talk so definitely about them living together. “I _would_ like that, too,” he said hesitantly, “except . . .” He trailed off. Here it was then, the moment of truth.

“Except what?” asked Draco, when Harry didn’t continue.

“I . . . while you were gone . . . I got a letter from Cho.”

Draco frowned. “Don’t tell me,” he said flatly. “She didn’t get married after all and wants you back?”

“No, she _did_ get married, but – ”

“She hated her husband and left him . . . and wants you back?”

“No! She doesn’t want me back. Stop interrupting. This is hard enough for me to tell you as it is.”

“Go on then . . .”

Harry took a deep breath. “She’s pregnant.”

Draco shrugged. “So? That’s a revoltingly common occurrence after a girl gets married, you know.”

“But it _didn’t_ happen after she got married. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The baby . . . is mine.”

Both pale eyebrows went up. “Yours? They’re sure?”

“Yes.” Harry pulled Cho’s letter from his pocket. “It’s complicated,” he said. “It would be easier if you just read her letter.” Harry sighed as he handed it over. “Some of it is really . . . embarrassing.”

Draco’s intense curiosity was kindled by that last statement and he took the letter with avid interest. He didn’t have to read very far to see what Harry was talking about. And that was just the first paragraph.

Then he read further and nearly choked trying to stifle a loud laugh. “Oh, God, Harry!” he said, looking up to find Harry’s face turning bright crimson. “She says: _‘You don’t have to worry about my husband being upset about it. Lian is actually thrilled that I’m going to be the mother of your baby. He’s really proud of it.’_ ” Draco snickered. “Oh, that’s just priceless.” He laughed again, immensely enjoying the mortified look on Harry’s face. “You could rent yourself out,” he said, teasing. “I can see it now. Authentic Offspring of the Boy Who Lived! Every woman will want one and their husbands won’t mind!”

“Draco!” gasped Harry, appalled. “That’s _not_ funny!” This was not at all the reaction he’d expected. “Would you really want me to do that?”

“Of course not,” said Draco, still laughing. “But it _is_ funny! The entire wizarding world could be overrun by little myopic, messy-haired Potter babies.”

“It is _not_ funny,” said Harry, becoming exasperated. “I was really worried about telling you this. I thought you’d be upset.”

“Why?” asked Draco, genuinely puzzled. “It happened before we were together . . . and you told me yourself that you wanted to have kids. It was the one thing you told me you couldn’t give up. This way, you get the child you wanted and I still get you. I think it’s a perfect arrangement.” He studied Harry’s frowning face. “Aren’t you happy about it?” he asked. “It _is_ what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Some time in the future, yes,” said Harry on a sigh. “But not now, not like this. It isn’t right. It was completely irresponsible . . . to bring a baby into this world now . . . with a war starting.” He hesitated, then voiced his greatest fear. “What if I die?” he asked softly. “What if she loses me the same way I lost _my_ parents? That isn’t what I wanted at all.”

“Even if you die,” Draco pointed out reasonably, “it won’t be the same as your situation. She will still have her mother and step-father. She won’t be left alone.”

“I know,” said Harry, “I just . . .” He gazed at Draco for a moment silently, then a small smile appeared on his face. “You really don’t mind?” he asked.

“No,” said Draco. “I’m actually rather pleased – and for purely selfish reasons. I won’t have to worry now about you pining away for something I can’t give you.”

“But once the war is over and it’s safe, they want me to be involved with her. So that affects you too,” warned Harry. “It means that if we live together, maybe sometimes she’ll come stay with us.”

“So she’ll come for short visits,” said Draco. “Then she’ll go home and it can be just us again. I think I can deal with that.” He gave Harry a teasing grin and went back to reading the rest of the letter.

Harry finally relaxed and allowed the thought that he was going to have a daughter sink in. He felt such an incredible mixture of excitement and worry and anticipation.

Draco looked up after finishing the end of the letter and regarded Harry thoughtfully for a few seconds. “As much as I hate to admit it, I agree with what they’re doing. They’ve kept your involvement secret between the two of them and their parents, and they seem to have everything worked out quite carefully with the baby’s safety in mind,” he said. “She says it’s traditional in her husband’s family for the father to name the first born. Have you given any thought to what you will name her?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “My mother died for me . . . and I’ve always planned to name any daughter I had after her. So I want to name her Lily.”

Draco groaned.

“What?” said Harry. “You don’t think I should?”

“No, no,” said Draco, “it’s not that. I think you should – it’s just that it’s . . . it’s another one of those bloody flower names.”

“And what’s wrong with flower names, if I may ask?” asked Poppy Pomfrey, a tone of mild insult in her voice as she walked across the room from the door. The boys had been too engrossed in their conversation and hadn’t heard her come in. Harry felt his face go hot, wondering how much she had overheard, but when she reached the bedside, she just gave Draco a quizzical look.

Both boys stared at her for a second, then realization hit. Draco turned back to Harry with a hilariously horrified look on his face that said very clearly, _Oh my God, we forgot one!_

“Nothing’s wrong with flower names,” said Harry in a constrained voice, trying hard not to laugh. “We were just talking . . . er . . . about how many there were. Like my mother, Lily, and my aunt, and his mother, too.”

“Can’t go wrong with a flower name, my mother always said,” she replied, nodding. “I have three sisters: Amaryllis, Iris, and Daisy Rose.”

Draco moaned softly.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked, sudden concern showing on her face. “Maybe you’ve overdone things.”

“I’m fine,” said Draco. “But actually, I _am_ feeling just a bit tired.”

“Hmmm,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I think perhaps you should make an early night of it, then. In fact, we all had a very trying night last night and could use the extra rest.”

She turned to look pointedly at Harry. “I know you two are bonded and I know it’s not what you would like,” she said, her tone both understanding and firm, “but this is a hospital. So Harry, I’m putting you on your honor that if you stay here tonight, you will stay in your own bed.”

Reluctantly Harry agreed, for Draco’s sake. He didn’t want to go to sleep early, and he definitely didn’t want to sleep apart, but Draco _was_ looking tired. Those light blue smudges were reappearing under his eyes.

“I’ll leave you two to get ready then,” said Madam Pomfrey. “I’ll be back in a little while to put the lamps out.”

Draco declared that he could not possibly sleep another night without taking a shower or brushing his teeth, so Harry rummaged through the cupboards until he found a clean pair of pajamas and a couple of spare toothbrushes. But Draco also insisted that he could do it by himself, thank you very much. “You’re not my bloody house-elf, Potter,” he said with an affronted sniff, when Harry followed him into the small hospital bathroom, evidently with every intention of helping him bathe. “I think I can manage a bar of soap and a toothbrush on my own.”

Harry had to settle for surreptitiously checking on Draco every few minutes by quietly poking his head in the bathroom door, though all he got for his trouble was to have his glasses steam up. He finally decided to neaten up Draco’s bed instead. He set Draco’s rare books carefully on the night table and stacked the ones Madam Pomfrey had brought in separately on the chair. He fluffed the pillows and pulled the rumpled bedclothes straight. Shortly after that, he heard the shower stop and the water in the sink turn on, and then Draco came out, smelling of sweet lavender-herbal soap, looking refreshed and much happier.

While Harry quickly brushed his own teeth, Draco walked down to the window again to look out. The thick snow clouds of the afternoon had mostly cleared away, leaving only thin tattered wisps that stretched like gauzy wind-blown veils across the dark star-studded sky. A slim waning crescent moon cast a pale, eerie light over the pristine snow-covered landscape below.

Draco laid his hand against the icy cold glass and felt a moment of stark awe that he should be here on the inside, warm and alive and loved, when he could have so easily been lying out there, cold and lifeless, buried under the earth and snow. Harry joined him, his arms going around Draco from behind to hold him, and Draco let his bleak thoughts slip away in the comfort of that embrace.

Over Draco’s shoulder, Harry looked out at the unbroken blanket of snow and memory hit him with a momentary pang of loss. “I guess the Quidditch pitch is all covered over now,” he said wistfully.

It took Draco a second or two to think what Harry meant, then he turned within the circle of Harry’s arms to face Harry, his arms going around Harry’s waist. “You saw my note?” he asked, smiling.

“I did,” said Harry, smiling back.

“It was a silly idea . . .” said Draco deprecatingly, but he looked quite pleased.

“I loved it,” said Harry.

Draco answered that very simply by kissing Harry.

“C’mon,” said Harry, still smiling, when they pulled apart a long moment later. “Let’s get you in bed.”

Harry had just finished tucking Draco into bed, when Madam Pomfrey came back in from her office wearing her robe and night cap. “Ready for lights out?” she asked, seeing Harry still dressed and sitting on the edge of Draco’s bed.

“Almost,” said Harry. He turned back to Draco while she waited, and not caring that she watched, he kissed Draco good night. “See you in the morning,” he said softly.

Draco held Harry’s hand for a second longer, then let him go, and Harry walked to the opposite bed. “Okay,” he said. “I can get undressed in the dark.”

Madam Pomfrey waved her wand to put out the lamps. “Good night, then,” she said and disappeared into her office.

Harry didn’t bother with the hospital pajamas he’d worn the night before, but simply stripped down to his boxers and got into bed. Settling onto his back, he lay still, letting his awareness stretch out across the room, feeling Draco’s presence like a prickle along his nerves or static hovering over his skin, like something magnetic pulling at him. He wondered if he should have done the sleep spell tonight, worried if Draco would sleep all right without it.

The light under Madam Pomfrey’s door went out after another minute, leaving the room lit only by the silent pools of watery moonlight that stretched across the floor under the window at the far end of the room. He closed his eyes, finally feeling the tiredness of the long day, and was just starting to drift off when . . .

“Harry?” A whisper in the dark. “Are you asleep?”

“Not yet.” He heard Draco’s bedsprings creak softly, and a pale form, almost ghostly in the dim moonlight, hurried across the room to stand at the side of his bed.

Draco stood for a moment, listening, then quickly slipped into bed with Harry.

“Draco,” Harry protested feebly, as he shifted over to make room. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Technically speaking,” said Draco, snuggling up against Harry, “I’m _not_ out of bed.”

“You shouldn’t be out of _your_ bed,” amended Harry, but he couldn’t help putting his arms around Draco to pull him closer.

“Shhh,” whispered Draco. “She didn’t say _I_ had to stay in my own bed.”

Harry laughed very softly. “I’ll let _you_ be the one to point that out to her if she catches us,” he said.

Draco gave a short, quiet laugh. He took a deep breath, letting it out in a sigh of pleasure. “I just needed to be with you like this for a little while,” he said, turning serious, “and then I’ll go back.” His arms tightened around Harry in a hug. “I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” whispered Harry. He slid his hand down Draco’s back and slipped it up under Draco’s pajama top, hearing with small inner thrill how Draco responded with another soft sigh at the touch of his hand. This was the first time they’d had a chance to be together, just to hold one another, since Draco had left to go home for Christmas, and Harry felt immensely grateful for this moment of calm pleasure. The quiet of the room settled around them, instilling a sense of serenity, comforting in its simplicity; a new, very welcome tranquility filled them, replacing all the many worries and stresses they’d battled lately, like the peace that follows the storm.

“So,” said Draco in a hushed voice, breaking the silence finally. “I go away for two days and you are full of surprises. Freeing Malfoy house-elves and getting girls pregnant. Is there anything else you need to tell me?” He paused, the teasing quality of his voice changing to something more serious and just a little insecure. “Anything else you’re still upset about?”

“No,” said Harry. “Well, maybe . . . one thing,” he admitted. “The chess game. You let me win. No, worse than that, you deliberately played to _make_ me win.”

Draco raised up a bit on one elbow to look down at Harry. “Is _that_ all?”

“It wasn’t fair,” said Harry. “I want a rematch.”

“You know I’ll trounce you, don’t you?”

“I don’t know any such thing,” said Harry.

“It’ll be a bloody rout, Harry. I’m a much better player than you.”

“You’re going to have to prove that,” challenged Harry.

“Okay, you’re on,” said Draco. “And I’ll even let you play white.” He grinned smugly. “Go on, then,” he said. “We can start right now.”

Harry thought for a moment. “Pawn to C4,” he said. He pulled his hand out from under Draco’s pajama top and tugged at the hem. “Take this off,” he said.

Draco raised one eyebrow, but sat up after a second’s hesitation and started on his buttons. “I thought you were worried about Madam Pomfrey,” he said, his voice low and teasing again. “What if she does come back in? She’ll be horribly shocked.”

“She’ll be angry, but I seriously doubt she’ll be shocked,” said Harry with a grin. “I mean she _has_ seen you with your shirt off. Anyway, I thought you liked shocking people.”

“That’s quite true,” said Draco. He grinned back and dropped his pajama top to the floor. “My turn now,” he said, lying back down next to Harry. This time, he shifted down so that he could rest his head on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry’s arms came around him, skin brushing against bare skin with a silken electricity that caused them both to catch their breath.

Harry hugged Draco close again, and the silence of the room now held a hushed air of anticipation. He felt Draco’s soft exhaled sigh feather across his throat as Draco’s hand, trailing a shimmering path of crystal white glitter, slid up over his bare stomach and chest to lie, stirring and warm, just over his captivated heart.

“Pawn to E5,” whispered Draco. His voice was earnest now, all teasing forgotten. “There were so many things I couldn’t say to you before, that I wanted to say. I was afraid to want us too much . . . and I thought if I kept you from getting too close, maybe you wouldn’t be so hurt in the end. I know now that I was wrong, that there wasn’t any way I could have kept you from being hurt if I had died.”

“I would have been terribly hurt,” whispered Harry back. “But I never would have hated you . . . or regretted anything.”

Draco came up on one elbow again, his fingers skimming up Harry’s neck, then weaving into the dark hair. “Thank you,” he said very quietly. “That means a lot to me.” He leaned in to kiss Harry. It was a light kiss, full of tenderness and gratitude for all that Harry had done for him, but it was more than that. Expressing all of the devotion in Draco’s heart, it revealed an unshakable commitment fully and honestly given. And it was enough to awaken the desire that had lain dormant between them since the harrowing events at the Portkey hub.

The air seemed to go heavy and tremulous around them with expectation. Harry felt his pulse quicken, felt Draco tremble in his arms.

“I want you,” said Draco, a breath of words against Harry’s mouth, before he kissed Harry deeply, igniting that initial spark into a spiraling flare of passion between them. “I want you,” he repeated, “not just now, but for all of my life.” His voice was hushed, barely audible from emotion, but there was no question of the certainty that resounded in his words. He brushed his lips over Harry’s again softly, then bent his head to kiss the edge of Harry’s jaw, his throat, the hollow between his collarbones.

“I want you, too,” whispered Harry as every thought of objection, of where they were, of Madam Pomfrey, even of Draco’s injury, fled from his mind in the wake of Draco’s kisses. “I want you forever,” he said breathlessly.

Draco lifted his head to look into Harry’s eyes, shining with emotion and reflected moonlight. “The rest of my life has always belonged to you,” he whispered, and his mouth found Harry’s again, kissing him with a gentle delicacy that only inflamed the need they both felt.

Harry tightened his arms around Draco, pulling Draco down, so that Draco moved, shifting over to lie on top of him. Draco’s weight pressed him down and the intimacy of their contact through the thin layers of fabric they still wore, sent waves of shivery tremors through Harry.

Draco dropped his head down, his mouth next to Harry’s ear. “Will you do the magic, Harry?” he asked, his voice hushed.

“Things got a little out of control last time, remember?” whispered Harry. But his heart beat faster, stirred by his memories of that night, of how the magic had woven them together so closely that they’d seemed to melt into each other.

“Yes,” whispered Draco. “That’s exactly what I want to happen.”

Draco’s words made Harry smile. “So do I,” he whispered and kissed the side of Draco’s face.

Closing his eyes, Harry let his awareness sink into the center of his own magic and found that Draco’s magic was now an integral part of himself, joining and extending his own magic in a fluid fusing together of emotion and power. Without using a spell, Harry released this power, letting it flood through him and through his hands into Draco.

A heightened awareness of Draco’s physical presence echoed back to him in the pounding of heartbeats closely matched, in the synchronizing rhythm of their breath. An outpouring of love and magic flowed through both of them, overflowing from one to the other and back again in an endless circle through all the magical bindings that joined them.

Boundaries of self and other blurred and merged; all sense of separation disappeared between them, and like two streams of water flowing together, they became one. The cool fire of Draco’s touch was indistinguishable from the touch of Harry’s own warm hands on Draco’s skin; Harry’s low, murmured moan resonated with the sound of Draco’s voice.

Hands found hands, fingers lacing, wrist pressed to wrist, and time stood still as they lost themselves to each other in the power of their shared passion. The urgent tenderness of their kisses and the ardent, arching movement of their bodies built crescendos of compelling heat that burned in brilliant flashes of golden and diamond sparks until it seemed the world caught fire, dissolving bone and melting thought.

They clung tightly to each other, as the world gradually cooled and coalesced back into the silent, moonlit room around them, as time slipped delicately into being again. Racing breath and heartbeats slowed, the magic ebbed, and all their thoughts floated away for a moment, suspended in that hazy sense of calm, contented completion.

Harry finally stirred and kissed the side of Draco’s face that was pressed against his own. He felt profoundly moved, profoundly in love and as if he could never find enough words or enough ways to say so. “I love you,” he whispered, and Draco hummed softly in response.

Draco kissed Harry’s shoulder, and raised his head to look into Harry’s eyes. Even in the darkened room, the eye contact was intensely intimate; everything they had become to each other was expressed deeply and clearly. “I love you, too,” said Draco on a breath, touching their noses together.

A little shivery thrill went through Harry and his heart skipped, turning over, as he realized that those words, said so simply and meant so genuinely, _were_ enough to encompass all the overwhelming emotions he felt just now, because he suddenly knew that Draco understood them all perfectly. Everything that Harry felt, he saw mirrored in Draco’s moonlight-silver eyes. And Harry knew, too, that neither of them would have any regrets, not ever, no matter how long or short a time their forever would be.

For a few more minutes they lay together in a state of drowsy happiness, wishing the inevitable moment of separation could be delayed, but at last they both sat up, knowing that if they waited any longer they would fall asleep and Madam Pomfrey would surely discover them together in the morning. Harry tried a cleaning spell using wandless magic and found it worked surprisingly well, which gave Draco another excuse to kiss him.

“Do you want me to do the sleep spell tonight?” Harry asked, as Draco finally got out of his bed.

“No,” said Draco after a moment’s hesitation. He bent to retrieve his pajama top from the floor. “Somehow, I don’t think I’ll be needing that anymore,” he said softly, giving Harry one last, long, lingering kiss before crossing the room to get back into his own bed.

* * * * * 

Draco woke up slowly the next morning as yesterday’s events sifted through his mind in small joyous revelations of startling freedom. All the anxiety and despair for the future of the past two years that had lain like layers of shadow over his heart lifted free and floated away. He felt light and well; he was alive, his father’s callous domination broken at last.

The future stretched before him now, clean and unwritten, unknown and stirring with unexpected hope. He thought about the things Harry had told him yesterday, especially about the Magebond. That in itself filled him with a thrilling sense of excitement. There were so many exhilarating possibilities. And, more importantly, it meant no one would ever question his right to be with Harry now.

Hearing soft footsteps, he opened his eyes just in time to see Madam Pomfrey quietly open the door to the corridor and go out. He waited until she had closed the door behind her, then sat up to look for Harry. Across the room, Harry sat up too, as if he’d been waiting for the very same moment. Harry reached for his glasses on the bedside table, put them on, and saw that Draco was awake. They grinned at each other, their thoughts full of memories of the previous night and anticipation for the coming day they would have to spend together.

This time, it was Harry who, after quickly pulling on his jeans and shirt, went to Draco’s bed, certain that now that it was morning he’d kept his word to Madam Pomfrey. “How are you feeling today?” he asked.

“Much better,” said Draco. “Like if I have to spend another day in bed, I’ll go crazy. Or,” he added, pulling Harry close for a kiss, “if I do, it had better be with you in it too.”

Harry laughed and kissed back. “We’ll talk to Madam Pomfrey when she gets back.”

“I’ve been thinking about the Magebond this morning,” said Draco, “trying to remember what I’ve read about it. Besides the emotional bonding aspect of it, I think it means we’re able to cast spells together.” He raised one eyebrow provocatively at Harry. “I think we should try it.”

“Now?”

“Of course, now.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry. “Dumbledore said we needed to be careful – that we needed training to use it properly. Remember how you felt drained when I transfigured that snowball? You’re just recovering from a terrible wound in your magical aura. I don’t want to do anything that will cause a relapse.”

“I think I’m quite well enough,” said Draco. “And I only felt drained for a few seconds that time. This time I’ll be casting with you – that might make a difference. We’ll just do something really easy.”

Harry still looked doubtful. “Like what?”

“First, do something yourself – for practice.” Draco looked over at Harry’s bed across the room. “Do you think you could pop that pillow over there?”

Harry followed Draco’s gaze and slowly grinned. “Maybe.” He closed his eyes for a moment, drawing his concentration inward, into his magic. Then picturing the pillow bursting open in his mind’s eye, he directed his magic toward it through his outstretched hand. There was a small audible _bang!_ from across the room, like the sound of a balloon popping. 

Harry heard Draco’s sharp intake of breath and short triumphant laugh, and opened his eyes. The pillow on his bed had indeed popped open, a small rip in the top and down one side spilling a cascade of feathers out onto the sheets.

“It worked!” said Harry, turning to Draco with a wide grin, but his excitement quickly changed to concern. “Did it bother you at all?”

“I felt it,” said Draco honestly. “But only a little – like a slight tug inside me.” He grinned back. “Try it again, but this time we’ll do it together. Maybe if we both try, we can make the pillow on the next bed pop open even more.” Then he looked questioningly at Harry. “What should I do?”

“Er . . . just visualize it, I guess,” said Harry uncertainly. “That’s what I do, then I send the magic energy out toward it like I learned to do with the healing magic.”

Draco took hold of Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Since I’ve never done it before, it might not work,” he said. “That’s something else I’ll have to learn. But let’s try it – just to see what happens.”

Harry nodded and closed his eyes again. “On three,” he whispered, focusing his magic again.

Draco closed his eyes too and concentrated as hard as he could on pillows popping.

“One . . . two . . . three . . .”

_Ka-BOOM!!_

Every mattress and pillow in the ward exploded with a thunderous sound. A blinding blizzard of white feathers rained down from all directions.

For a moment, it was impossible to see, then as the feathers drifted down to settle over everything, Harry looked around, stunned at the disaster they had just created of the hospital wing. “Bloody hell,” he said in a hushed voice. “I guess that’s why we need training.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Draco, equally shocked. Then he turned to Harry as if he’d just had a startling revelation. “You do understand what this means, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, brushing feathers out of his hair. “Madam Pomfrey is going to kill us.”

“Harry, be serious,” said Draco. “Using our combined magical strength and your ability to do wandless magic without a spell, you will have a real chance against the Dark Lord. You do realize how dangerous you could be now, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to be dangerous,” said Harry with a deep sigh of annoyance. “I told you, I don’t want to fight any more.”

Draco gave Harry a cool, disbelieving and slightly disapproving look. “You said you didn’t want to fight Voldemort _alone_ , and now you don’t have to. It’ll be brilliant.”

“No, it won’t,” said Harry, stubbornly. “Don’t _you_ understand? It _won’t_ be brilliant or glorious or _anything_ like that. It’ll be horrible and dirty and sickening.”

Draco nodded. “Of course,” he said. “It’ll be that, too. But he has to be stopped, Harry.”

“I _know_ he has to be stopped, Draco.” Harry looked down at his hands, feeling almost that they had betrayed him. “I just . . . why does it have to be me . . . or us?”

“Are you telling me that you’ve just become the greatest secret weapon the wizarding world could imagine and you don’t _want_ to?” Draco’s tone was incredulous.

Harry sighed again. “Is that what I’m saying?”

“Yes!” Draco reached out and took Harry’s hand again, holding it tightly. “This is forever,” he said. “But forever isn’t going to mean much if the Dark Lord takes over. He destroyed both of our families. Now we really have a chance to do something about that, to defeat him once and for all.”

“I can’t fight him for vengeance anymore, Draco.”

Draco regarded Harry for a very long moment, then went on in a gentler voice. “What about your daughter’s future? What about the family we are going to be?” he asked. “I want that future we talked about, Harry. I gave it up once and I won’t again. Don’t you think that’s worth fighting for?”

“Yes,” said Harry, very softly. “Of course. But. . . .” His words trailed off into a silence that hung suspended between them.

“I will fight with you, Harry,” said Draco finally, “and I will fight for you. But I can’t fight against you. I can’t do this if you won’t. We have to do it together.”

Harry stared down at their clasped hands lying amidst the downy snowfall of feathers as he listened to Draco’s words and the sight stirred a memory, fleeting and misty at first, then suddenly clear. Harry lifted their hands up between them. “Draco,” he said in an awed, hushed voice, “I saw this. I _dreamed_ about this. I just remembered. It was the first time I stayed all night with you and I had that nightmare. You woke me up, remember?”

At Draco’s nod, he went on. “I was looking down at Voldemort’s army and I felt so tired and sickened by it all . . . and so alone and terrified that I could never fight them all. But then I felt someone take my hand . . . and all this strength and confidence poured into me . . .” He looked up to meet Draco’s eyes. “That was when you woke me up and you were holding my hand and I thought that’s why I dreamed that . . . but . . .” Harry straightened up, his eyes shining. “This is what it meant,” he said quietly. “I don’t have to fight them alone now.” 

“No,” said Draco. “You don’t.” His eyes met Harry’s steadily and seriously, a solemn pact exchanged without words, but a moment later, one eyebrow went up and he gave Harry a small amused grin. “Didn’t I just say that?”

Harry didn’t answer. He just leaned in to kiss Draco.

The door to the hospital wing opened and there was a sudden muffled gasp. The boys broke apart and turned to see Madam Pomfrey standing in the doorway, one hand over her mouth. Feathers swirled around her feet and spun in lazy drifts across the floor in the draft from the open door.

“What on Earth _happened_ in here!?” she demanded.

Harry gripped Draco’s hand tighter, closed his eyes and, remembering the spell Hermione had used on Draco’s necklace, thought, _Reficio!_ A dizzying whirlwind of flying feathers instantly filled the room accompanied by a roaring, sucking noise. Then abruptly, with a loud _POP!_ everything was put back together.

Madam Pomfrey, her nurse’s cap blown askew on top of her head, marched over to the bed and looked down at the two boys.

“Sorry,” said Harry, trying not to grin. “We just . . . er, sort of found out what a Magebond means.”

Draco, though, was grinning without any pretense of apology whatsoever.

Madam Pomfrey looked from one boy to the other, then walked over to one of the cupboards and came back with Draco’s clothes. “Get dressed, Mr. Malfoy,” she said dryly. “It also means you’re quite well enough to be discharged.”

* * * * * 

Only a short time later, Harry and Draco were walking slowly down the corridor, arms loosely linked around each other’s waists, Harry carrying Draco’s heavy winter cloak and his two rare Potions books. They had just set out from the hospital wing and were on their way down to the Slytherin tower when Hermione and Ron came around the corner at the end of the hall.

Draco’s eyebrows went up. “I thought no one knew we were here,” he said in an undertone.

With a small inward groan at his own forgetfulness, Harry turned to Draco, talking quickly. “Hermione went home with Ron for Christmas to announce their engagement, so they were there when Arthur Weasley was involved in helping us get you back here. He only told them you were hurt by a Dark Magic curse. They don’t know about the Killing Curse or that I healed you.” He paused to take a breath, and went on apologetically. “They came to visit yesterday, too, before you woke up, and said to tell you that they’re glad you’re safe. I forgot.”

“Both of them?” said Draco, a little skeptical.

“Both of them,” repeated Harry firmly. He was going to take every opportunity now to encourage Ron and Draco to put the past behind them, even if he had to embellish the truth a bit.

There was a moment of awkward silence as the four met in the middle of the corridor, then Hermione stepped forward. “Oh, hell,” she said, “I don’t care if you don’t like it,” and she threw her arms around Draco’s neck and hugged him tightly. “I am so glad we didn’t lose you,” she added, and her voice quivered noticeably.

For a moment, Draco stood frozen to the spot, stunned, then he disentangled himself from Harry and hugged her back. “I’m glad too,” he said softly.

Hermione pulled back to look him in the eye and he saw that her lashes were damp. “If you ever even _contemplate_ doing something like that again,” she said in her fiercest Head Girl Voice, “I will kill you myself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Draco in a very subdued voice, but he smiled at her teasingly.

“All right then,” she said, smiling back and let him go.

Draco turned to Ron. “Will you tell your father thank you from me?” he said. “I understand he helped get me back here after I was . . . hurt.”

“Sure,” said Ron, studying Draco carefully, not quite certain what to make of this new contrite and serious Malfoy.

“Oh,” said Draco, as if something had just occurred to him, “and you can give him this.” He took his cloak from Harry and turned it over until he found the right hand pocket, then pulled out a folded up piece of parchment which he handed to Ron. “It looks blank,” he explained as Ron opened it, “but it’s an invisible list of names and addresses of so-called business connections, people who were acting as alibis for my father while he was doing work for the Dark Lord.” He waited until Ron looked up from the paper and met the blue eyes steadily. “I’m guessing that the most secret of my father’s records at the manor are under that same spell – to look blank.”

“Do you know how to read them?” asked Hermione.

“Yes,” said Draco, “although it’s also possible he had more than one spell to do this. He didn’t quite trust me with his secrets. The spell on that is the one our family used on private messages.”

“I’ll give it to my Dad,” said Ron. He refolded the list and carefully pocketed it while Draco taught Hermione the spell that would reveal the hidden writing. “I’m sure it will help,” he said, when Hermione had correctly memorized the spell, “but don’t think that I’ve forgotten you nearly got Harry killed – no matter what side you’re on.”

“Ron, don’t,” protested Harry, but Draco laid a hand on his arm.

Hermione frowned, also ready to jump to Draco’s defense, but Ron didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on Draco. “So, just in case you have any more bright ideas about putting Harry in danger, Malfoy,” he went on quickly, before she could say anything, “I’m still going to be watching you.”

“Is that so, Weasley?” said Draco, returning Ron’s stare boldly, a hint of his old infuriating drawl sounding in his voice.

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Like a hawk.”

“Well,” said Draco, “since I have no intention of doing anything to endanger Harry, I’m sure I won’t care.” He paused. “In fact,” he added thoughtfully, a mischievous smile playing around the corners of his mouth, “you can watch me all you want. But you might regret it.”

“Would I now?” asked Ron huffily. “And why is that?”

“Because,” said Draco, his eyes sliding over to Harry, “every time I see you watching me, I’m going to do this – ” He suddenly hooked his arm around Harry’s neck and pulled Harry into a rather demonstrative kiss.

“Oh, gah!” groaned Ron. He turned away and found Hermione watching that kiss with a knowing grin. “I bet you knew he was going to do that,” he accused. “Didn’t you?”

“I had a hunch,” she said. “He does seem to like having an audience.” She laughed. “And Harry certainly doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Bloody exhibitionists,” muttered Ron.

At that, Harry and Draco broke apart, unable to stop themselves from laughing.

Ron watched Draco laughing with Harry with an odd mixture of jealousy and disbelief. The pang of jealousy he dismissed as beneath him – he truly wanted Harry to be happy and that meant he had to let Harry be with the person Harry loved just as willingly as Harry shared him with Hermione.

But he’d never seen Draco laugh like this and for a moment he simply couldn’t believe that this boy was the same infuriating, slimy git he’d fought with since first year. Surely it was not possible for someone to change so much. And though it was still at Ron’s expense, Ron could see that even the way Draco laughed at him now was different. All the taunting animosity of their younger days was gone. It was clearly only harmless teasing, not meant to make fun or hurt.

All of Ron’s firmly conceived notions about the Slytherin seemed to have been systematically challenged lately and found to be far from the truth. It was rather hard to swallow – that he’d been so wrong all these years – but he looked at the happiness on Harry’s face and, he had to admit, on Draco’s face too, and finally conceded defeat.

“Need another demonstration, Weasley?” Draco asked mischievously. He pulled Harry close again, grinning smugly as if he would be only too happy to oblige.

“No!” said Ron. “I’ve seen quite enough.” He’d meant to sound put out, but he realized with surprise, he actually _wasn’t_ that annoyed anymore. Somehow, with that sentence, he knew he _had_ seen enough, enough to cross over from the last lingering feelings of doubt to the first small beginnings of trust.

“What a shame,” said Draco, feigning disappointment for a moment and still teasing, but it was clear that he’d somehow heard the undercurrent of change in Ron’s words because he smiled, suddenly turning the full effect of that real, genuine heart-felt smile directly on Ron for the very first time.

That smile had always taken Harry’s breath away and made his knees melt into jelly, and though Ron’s response was not nearly so emotionally intense, he was far from immune to its power.

In spite of himself, he smiled back.

* * * * * 

But as much as Harry and Draco had hoped to spend that Sunday alone together, it didn’t happen. Ron and Hermione walked back with them to Draco’s room. Ron even offered to carry Draco’s heavy books up the Slytherin tower stairs so that Harry could help Draco up the long climb easier. Well, that is, he offered after Hermione had elbowed him meaningfully while Harry and Draco were not looking.

But Ron was suitably impressed with the room, and Harry managed to keep him from looking out the window to see Draco’s way-too-handy view of the Quidditch pitch by pointing out Draco’s beautiful chess set. That proved to be a brilliant distraction as Ron and Draco sat in the chairs by the fire, resetting the pieces on the chessboard back to their starting positions, discovering a mutual passion.

Ron handled each piece with amazement written all over his freckled face. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “These must be over a hundred years old.”

“They are,” said Draco proudly. “My grandmother inherited the set from her grandfather, and gave it to me.”

“Maybe we could . . . er . . . play sometime?” suggested Ron, his ears turning rather pink, surprising them all, including himself, with this extension of goodwill.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, though Harry could tell he was pleased. “Maybe,” he said. “But you should know, I’ve almost never been beaten.” He gave Harry a sly grin.

“Well, _you_ should know that might be about to change,” said Ron, the light of challenge sparking in his eyes.

Hermione and Harry exchanged very pleased looks.

They might have started a game then and there, but Hermione reminded Ron that they needed to go. Since Harry and Draco wanted to talk to Dumbledore, the four of them walked together back to the headmaster’s office. Ron and Hermione used Floo powder in the headmaster’s huge fireplace to travel back to the Burrow. Then Harry and Draco sat down with Dumbledore, and over tea and raspberry muffins, Harry stammered out a very embarrassed confession regarding his impending fatherhood.

Dumbledore regarded Harry silently over the tops of his half-moon glasses, his expression quite enigmatic, because though his silver eyebrows seemed to be frowning, his eyes were shining. He nodded approvingly when Harry explained Cho’s plans. “No one else must know about this, Harry,” he said solemnly, when the whole story was told. “Until Voldemort is defeated, any child of yours will be in dreadful danger.”

“I know,” whispered Harry. He felt ready to sink into the floor as it was. Draco reached over and took his hand.

“But you were right to tell me,” added Dumbledore. “I’ll do everything I can to help keep her safe.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry with gratitude and relief, feeling that this was so much more than he had any right to expect.

Once that was settled, Draco asked for permission to go see his mother at St. Mungo’s Hospital and Dumbledore used his Floo powder again and accompanied them there personally. It was a short and emotional meeting. Narcissa stood up shakily from her chair when she saw Draco and tears spilled from her closed eyes as she hugged him tightly for a long, long moment.

She soon composed herself and Draco introduced her to Harry. She was rather shocked however, both dismay and disbelief flitting across her thin, pinched face, to find her handsome son explaining that this mop-headed _boy_ was his chosen life partner. The fact that Harry was responsible for saving Draco’s life, though, went a very long way toward softening her disapproval. But the emotional shock had tired her, and talks of what was to become of the manor and other arrangements could wait for when she was stronger. The boys left her to rest and returned with Dumbledore to Hogwarts and a much-needed lunch.

That afternoon, while Draco also rested, Harry sat at Draco’s desk and wrote a letter to Cho. In addition to assuring her of his growing happiness about the baby and his approval of her plans, he devoted a lot of the letter to explaining as much as he could reveal about his new relationship with Draco. All of it had been hard to put into words and it took him well over an hour to write it, but he felt relieved and much more settled after it was done. He was just watching Hedwig fly away with it when another owl appeared, dipping and weaving, flying laboriously and headed on a wobbly line for Draco’s open window.

Harry recognized Errol at once and ducked out of the way. The owl skidded across the sill on one foot and went over the edge, falling with a heavy thud and a belated flapping of wings to the floor below. There, he lay on his back with both legs sticking up, a note dangling from one of them. With a profoundly exhausted glance at Harry, he promptly fell asleep. Harry untied the note and quickly read it, then closed the window and went to wake up Draco. They had been invited to the Burrow for dinner.

Dumbledore gave them permission to go and allowed them to travel again by Floo powder from his office. The dinner was wonderful; Molly outdid herself with the cooking, and Draco, to his pleasure and embarrassment, was much made over. Luckily Harry had been on hand to intercept and confiscate the “peace offering” Draco was given by Fred and George. “We just wanted to welcome him into the family properly,” they’d insisted with an innocent air that fooled no one as Harry returned the box of Ton-Tongue Toffees and Canary Creams.

* * * * * 

Wednesday evening was New Year’s Eve, and Professor McGonagall let Harry and Draco go early from their afternoon detention with her. It was really more of a class than detention – she had started working with them on mastering the intricacies of their Magebond – but for appearances’ sake, they called it detention.

Snape had kept them slaving away in the dungeons all day on Monday, until McGonagall found out. With tight-lipped authority as deputy headmistress, she’d insisted that for the rest of the week the boys had to be given a proper lunch break and would then serve detention with her in the afternoons. Since Harry felt very keenly that he’d scoured enough burnt and revoltingly gooey cauldrons in that one day to last a lifetime, especially while Draco was only restocking potions ingredients in the school storeroom, a job Snape declared Harry was not “qualified” to do, he was extremely grateful for her intervention.

They took full advantage of the mini-holiday and spent the time alone together in Draco’s room, finishing the chess game they’d started in the hospital wing, and having another private romantic dinner. Dobby had fallen all over himself to be of service to “the great and honorable Mages” since his tearful reunion with his brother Nobby, and at Harry’s request, had been delighted to re-spell the table in Draco’s room to give them their meals. Harry suspected they also got extra-special desserts that the tables in the Great Hall did not.

Draco very neatly won their second chess game, just as he’d claimed he would, and after their delicious candlelit dinner, Harry quite willingly paid the price.

Lying now in Draco’s arms, he felt boneless and melted, poured out warm and languid as a puddle of sunlight. His pulse sang in his ears, heat pooled under his hands resting on warm skin, and air cooled the back of his neck where his hair was damp. He roused himself a little with effort and came up on one elbow to look down into Draco’s face. His hand skimmed lightly up Draco’s bare chest leaving a glimmering trail of golden sparks over Draco’s skin. Light gray eyes, warm and sated and sleepy, opened to gaze back.

“Best New Year’s Eve fireworks ever,” whispered Harry.

Draco smiled lazily. “What fireworks?”

Harry bent his head and kissed Draco softly. “These,” he said. “They were quite spectacular.”

“Ah,” said Draco, pulling Harry down into another slower, stirring kiss. “Who said they were over?”

And indeed, it was nearly midnight before they finally got up and dressed hurriedly to join in the castle festivities. Draco grabbed their brooms from the corner by the bookcase and they flew out through his opened window. It was a startlingly cold, clear night; the air was frosty and fresh with new-fallen snow, the sky lit up with stars and a bright silver sliver of moon. They took off in an exhilarating race, chasing each other once around the castle, mufflers and cloaks streaming out behind them, finally stopping to hover a little distance off from the top of the Astronomy Tower.

A faculty party was in full swing within the ramparts on the top of the Astronomy Tower. Hagrid, dressed in his best hairy brown suit and orange-striped tie waved at them with an enormous flagon of mulled mead in one hand and two smaller foaming tankards of hot butterbeer in the other. Harry and Draco swooped down to take their butterbeer, but declined to land. As members of next year’s faculty they had been invited, but neither of them was quite comfortable yet with the idea of attending parties with their professors. In truth, the fact that their professors actually _had_ parties had been enough of a shock, as that had been well concealed from them as students.

Hovering just beyond the battlements, Harry and Draco clicked their tankards together in a toast and drained them in one long swallow, then set the empty tankards on the edge of the parapet. Harry grinned to see Madam Trelawney, a glass of sherry in her hand and moonlight glinting off in all directions from her big thick glasses and beads, dancing with . . . well . . . no one. She was simply swaying and pirouetting happily to and fro as if to some lilting tune only she could hear.

Draco reached out and pulled Harry closer. “This job may not be as boring as I thought it was going to be,” he laughed.

“I don’t know,” laughed Harry back. “Taking on the first and second year’s Potions classes under Snape . . .”

Any further conversation, however, was cut short as the bells in the clock tower rang out the hour of midnight and a great cheer of “Happy New Year!” went up from the parapet. Flitwick and McGonagall sent great flares of red-and-blue and purple-and-orange sparks up into the air with their wands, which popped and whirled in the dark violet sky. Professor Sprout sent up a flare of glowing green streamers that seemed to form a large growing vine that burst into blooms of pink and yellow sparks.

Dumbledore even conjured a large dragon of firecrackers that took off into the sky and exploded into a shower of multi-colored whistling stars and spinning, fizzing wheels. Harry and Draco joined hands and sent up their own magical addition to the fireworks display. A huge, brilliant ball of gold and crystal-white sparks burst overhead with a loud bang to enthusiastic applause from the tower.

Other rockets and firecrackers and sparklers were set off then, but Harry, still holding Draco’s hand, banked his broom and led Draco up higher into the dark, glittering night sky.

“P-K?” asked Harry in a hushed voice, when they stopped to hover again. “Do you think we’ll still be here this time next year?”

“Shhhh.” Draco pulled him close. “First kiss for the New Year, Harry,” he said softly, leaning in to kiss Harry just as a great volley of rockets exploded above them in a streaming fountain of fiery colored stars.

Harry was never entirely sure later if the flashing lights and booming noises had really been fireworks or merely the impact of that kiss and the pounding of his heart, but one thing was definitely certain. He’d found the love he’d longed for that lonely night not so long ago in the corridor. It was a new year now, and everything had changed.

“Happy New Year, Draco,” whispered Harry, as they held each other tightly above the castle that would be, for the time being, their home.

“Happy New Year, D-W,” whispered Draco back.

It was a new year full of both exciting and fearful possibilities. But whatever came, however uncertain the future might be, Harry and Draco knew without a shadow of a doubt, that they would face it all together.


	19. Part III — Endgame — Epilogue

  


_And the appeal, partner_   
_Of this deal, partner_   
_Is we all stand to win_   
_You and me, the lady also_

_Who’d ever guess it?_   
_This would be the situation_   
_One more complication_   
_Should be neither here nor there_

Lyrics from “The Deal (No Deal)” from _Chess_ by Benny Anderson, Tim Rice and Björn Ulvaeus

* * * * * 

Many of the Slytherins and a scattering of students in other houses lost their fathers, or in some cases both parents, to Azkaban in the Ministry’s swift and quiet move to arrest the Death Eaters named by Lucius Malfoy. Some of the arrests were shocking, revealing upstanding members of the community, while others were no surprise at all. Most of these students declined to return to Hogwarts in the New Year after the Christmas holidays.

The Slytherins who did return, including Crabbe and Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson – one of the few whose parents were not named – drew together to form an unexpectedly solid and insular wall of protection around Draco. Pansy was a particularly staunch supporter of their restored Slytherin leader. She insisted that all remaining Slytherins wear the buttons she made that alternately flashed a picture of the Dark Mark with a diagonal red line through it and the words: _Real Slytherins Are Not Sheep!_

Harry’s true relationship with Draco was still a secret from most of the school, but the fact that they now took several of their classes alone together caused wide-spread gossip. So, with Dumbledore’s permission, they had finally explained about the Magebond and Harry’s talents in wandless magic and Magical Medicine to their closest friends.

And it was only those closest friends who also knew that Harry now shared the room at the top of Slytherin tower with Draco. A very ingenious spell had been cast on the door to the broom closet at the top of Gryffindor tower. Given the proper password, the door opened directly into Draco’s room, so to everyone except Harry’s roommates, it appeared Harry still lived in the Gryffindor dorm. Unfortunately, Seamus made it his newest hobby to try to discover that password.

One night, as Harry made his way up the stairs to the closet, a terrible crash was heard. The fact that the crash was followed by a loud, “Mother of God!” and a colorful string of Irish expletives left little doubt as to the culprit.

Harry threw open the door of the closet to find Seamus, who’d hoped to overhear the password by hiding in the closet, sprawled in a puddle of soapy water on the floor, his foot stuck in a bucket and a dripping wet mop draped over his head. After that, Harry kept a watchful eye on Seamus’s whereabouts when he was on his way to bed. Otherwise life at Hogwarts went on pretty much as usual.

Harry’s most confidential secret – the baby daughter due in March – was known only to Dumbledore, Draco, and to Cho, her husband and their parents.

Draco was eventually prevailed upon to stay on the Slytherin Quidditch team. Harry was pleased that Draco had decided not to abandon his team. To Harry it was simply a matter of honor.

He was pleased, too, because the game between their Houses wouldn’t have had the same excitement without their long-standing rivalry. But he was also a little annoyed because Draco had witnessed his secret team strategies and would know what to expect. However, Draco kept his word and never told his teammates about the surprising maneuvers he had seen Harry practicing with the Gryffindor team.

Consequently, during their final game on a drizzling rainy afternoon in early April, when Draco suddenly whirled his broom and raced off after the Snitch, the Slytherins were taking a terrible beating. The score was a staggering 230 to 50 in favor of Gryffindor. Harry instantly gave chase and they both vanished up into the low, gray cloud cover.

The crowds of students and teachers in the stands and the players circling the pitch all waited, shading their eyes from the rain and craning their necks, watching intently for the Seekers to reappear. Gryffindor was in control of the Quaffle, yet everyone paused in anticipation and no one tried to score. But minute after suspenseful minute went by . . . and there was no sign of them. Loud speculation, and even some bets, were exchanged in the stands.

At last, a dark shape appeared overhead and a hush fell over the crowds as they waited to see who it was. It was Harry, looking very much mussed, who emerged first from the clouds. The disheveled state of his hair and robes was most likely the result of flying at top speed through the wet clouds. However, given the high color in his cheeks and the fact that he had a rather silly and sheepish grin on his face, it looked a lot more like he may have been quite thoroughly snogged. He shrugged at his teammates and shook his head apologetically.

A second later, Draco swooped out of the clouds, flying directly to the center of the pitch. He paused, hovering in place for a half a heartbeat, then smiling from ear to ear, punched his arm over his head in triumph. Clutched in his upraised fist was a fluttering flash of gold. Screams of jubilation erupted all over the stands as the Slytherin supporters went wild. Draco’s team rushed at him in a massively unruly display of congratulations. Slytherin might have lost the match, but none of them cared. Draco Malfoy had finally caught the Snitch against Gryffindor!

* * * * * 

It was an early morning in May when Professor Dumbledore stood at the window in his office, stroking his long silver beard and pretending to gaze out across the grounds at the lovely contrast made by the newly green trees of the Forbidden Forest against the clear blue spring sky. Actually, he was watching the glassy reflections of the three young people who were using his office as a secret place to meet.

“Just hold her like this – let your arm support her head,” the young woman was saying, and Dumbledore smiled beneath his mustache and turned to watch with an extra sparkle in his light blue eyes as Harry Potter took his infant daughter in his arms for the first time.

Harry held the sleeping baby gingerly, awkwardly, a dazed and rather besotted smile on his face. Draco had one hand on his back and was looking closely over his shoulder. The baby’s small face was relaxed in sleep, black lashes on rose-petal cheeks, her tiny mouth slightly open. If it was possible for two boys to fall in love between one heartbeat and the next, they did.

Draco reached over and touched the cloud of downy black hair that crowned Lily’s head with curls like the fluff on a dandelion. “She has your hair,” he said with a teasing grin.

“She has his eyes, too,” said Cho.

“My mother’s eyes,” said Harry softly. He looked up at Cho and smiled. Draco’s arms slipped around his waist to hug him from behind. Harry leaned back into the other boy and smiled again, finding Draco’s unconscious possessiveness endearing.

“We’ll have to use a spell to disguise her eyes to look brown, though,” said Cho, “while we’re gone.”

Harry nodded. “When do you leave?” he asked.

“Day after tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll stay with Lian’s mother’s family until the war is over . . .” She paused and met Harry’s eyes, then amended her words. “Until we know it’s safe to bring her back.”

Harry nodded, understanding what she hadn’t said, that there was still the very real chance they might not win the fight against Voldemort and that the end of the war would not bring them safety. He looked back down at his daughter and shifted her in his arms until he could move one hand out to touch her face. “China is a long way away,” he said wistfully. “She might be grown before I ever see her again.”

_If I ever see her again_ , he added silently, knowing he might not live to see the end of the war. The future stretched away from Harry like a great, mysterious, blank page where any number of possible maybes and what-ifs might be written as well as one dreadful, appalling task.

Cho reached out and touched Harry’s arm. “We’ll make sure she knows you, Harry. No matter what happens.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, his voice breaking slightly. He took a deep breath and gazed down at the child in his arms. “Thanks for bringing her here,” he said, “so I could see her.”

Cho gave his arm a squeeze, and just then Lily yawned and stretched and opened her eyes.

“Oh,” breathed Harry. “Oh, my God.” He gazed down at the sweet face of his daughter, completely entranced. “She does have my eyes!”

And in that one moment, as Harry turned to grin at Draco and Draco hugged him tightly, grinning back, all the uncertainties of the future were forgotten, all the potential terrible ordeals to be endured ahead were as nothing. For contained in that one breathtaking moment there was a wonderful timeless eternity of pure joy. And it was perfect.

  


* * * The End * * *


	20. Checkmate Appendix: The Chess Game

  


 

| 

White (Draco)

| 

Black (Harry)  
  
---|---|---  
  
Chapter 1

| 

Pawn to D3

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 2

| 

~~~~

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 3

| 

~~~~

| 

Pawn to D5  
  
 

| 

Bishop to F4

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 4

| 

~~~~

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 5

| 

~~~~

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 6

| 

~~~~ 

| 

Knight to F6  
  
 

| 

Knight to C3

| 

Pawn to B5  
  
 

| 

Pawn to G4

| 

Knight to C6  
  
 

| 

Pawn to E3

| 

Knight to G4 x Pawn  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 7

| 

Knight to B5 x Pawn

| 

Pawn to E6  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 8

| 

Pawn to A4

| 

Bishop to D6  
  
 

| 

Knight to D6 x Bishop (Check)

| 

Pawn to D6 x Knight  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 9

| 

Pawn to D4

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 10

| 

~~~~

| 

Castle  
  
 

| 

Queen to G4 x Knight

| 

Rook to E8  
  
 

| 

Bishop to H6

| 

Pawn to G6  
  
 

| 

Knight to F3

| 

Pawn to E5  
  
 

| 

Queen to G3

| 

Pawn to D4 x Pawn  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 11

| 

Rook to D1

| 

Rook to E4  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 12

| 

Bishop to D3

| 

Queen to A5 (Check)  
  
 

| 

King to E2

| 

Bishop to A6  
  
 

| 

Rook to G1

| 

Knight to B4  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 13

| 

King to F1

| 

Bishop to D3 x Bishop (Check)  
  
 

| 

(Aborted move – King to E1)

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 14

| 

~~~~

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 15

| 

~~~~

| 

~~~~  
  
 

| 

 

| 

   
  
Chapter 16

| 

King to E1

| 

Knight to C2 x Pawn (Checkmate)  
  
 

 

 

   



End file.
